Writing about the world from the borders of Wales.

Latest from the Blog

Hello there

Living in Mid-Wales, I’m a 50+ wannabe novelist, ‘A Writing Chance’ award winner, working-class feminist sock knitter supreme. Lover of all things bookish.

I’m full of opinions on everything.

My name’s Maya. Grab a cuppa, stay awhile, have a nosey around.

  • Tomatoes in Lockdown.
    It was me. I stole all the tomatoes. Well, I didn’t steal them but while you were all panic buying loo roll and chocolate digestives I, in a covid-induced stupor, ordered tomato seeds. Do you garden? Were you one of the new recruits keen to make use of time on your hands, becoming self-sufficient on…
  • Walking my daughter home.
    My daughter calls. Not for a chat. Well, no. We chat. But it’s not like chatting when ‘Strictly’ is on and we like Aj’s dress or how utterly fabulous team JoJo are. It’s not just hanging out on the phone, catching up. This call has an altogether different purpose. It always starts the same.  “Hi…
  • The raising of ducklings
    We have this myth that our kids are grownups at 18. This is a myth mostly perpetuated by 18-year-old who think they know everything, and possibly by the parents of young children who are desperately clinging to the idea of a little light at the end of a very long tunnel.  Anyone who has ever…
  • Powerless in the face of a greeting.
    I have offended the local drug dealers. Not in a ‘my house is going to get torched and I’m in hiding, fearing for my life ’kind of way. Or at least I hope not.  More that they don’t say ‘good morning’ to me anymore. Before, they would all greet me when they saw me out…
  • Going home
    The river is resplendent in the colours of the season. Oak leaves turn biscuit brown, the Gelder Rose a dark lipstick pink, deepens to vermillion. Field Maples litter leaves the colour of sunshine, while Lime, leaves limp like hankies, drip to the floor. The Willow, luxuriating in a great unrobing, scatters its leaves across the…
  • What time is it really?
    ‘What time is it really?’ The dog and I stalk around the house trying to work it out, the shifting of the clocks having discombobulated us both. With our precise internal clocks, we are tipped off-kilter for the whole of November, trying to perform mental acrobatics to work out what we should be doing. Being…
  • Lockdown with David Niven
    I loved lockdown. I know you’re not meant to say that but, for me, lockdown was a lifesaver. A coming to life rather than a shutting-down. Maybe I should explain before you walk away. Fifteen years ago, I was busy being fabulous, with a bus full of kids, work and doing the allotment. Oh, and…
  • Standing at the shops
    It is hard to tell you that I have six children. Not hard for me, I am used to it. But it’s hard for you. I could lie to you. Not lie, so much as not tell the truth, there is a difference. I could tell you I have four children and we will laugh…
  • Becoming my own star.
     I felt bad. Trouble was I should’ve felt much worse. Which was why I felt bad. Everyone told me I was going to find the last of my duckling’s leaving home hard. And I mean, it was a bit.  I’m not a monster, I shed tears. But mostly, I was just thrilled. Which is bad.…
  • What’s in a name?
     I quilt. Bear with me, there is a point to this. I make beautiful quilts. They are quirky, unusual, stunning – ask me nicely and I’ll show you my Harry Potter bookcase quilts. I have no difficulty in calling myself a quilter, even when meeting fabulously famous quilters, whose skill I could only ever dream…

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