I am Cave Woman In A digital age

Ah, yes, the art of writing is totally dead. Everyone’s hopping on the podcast bandwagon now, right? "Listen to me talk about whatever while you fold laundry!" They say podcasts have power. They wrap you up in their warm, velvety tones and carry you off to a magical land where your brain doesn’t have to work too hard. I get it. They’re like an audio blanket that you can just snuggle into. But let’s be real: writing’s not dead, it’s just… a little more complicated now.

There’s something about the written word that still holds that old-school mystique. It’s deliberate. It has weight. (And let’s not forget, writers really work for it—there’s a reason we’ve got "writer’s block," which is basically just the literary equivalent of being stuck in quicksand. Slow, agonizing, and usually followed by a snack binge). I mean, every time I sit down to write, I feel like I’m trying to uncover some long-lost treasure, like Indiana Jones, but with a keyboard and no cool hat. Blogging used to feel like that! Every post was a tiny spark of genius. Now? It’s like blogs are those VHS tapes gathering dust in the back of a closet. Outdated. Replaced by influencers and viral dances. I used to carve out my little niche on the web, but now I just watch from the sidelines as everyone’s streaming, snapping, and scrolling their way into oblivion.

And don’t get me started on the doom-scrolling—the endless cycle of digital noise. Sometimes I catch myself thinking I need to keep up, but then I’m like, “Wait. What am I keeping up with? Someone's 8th avocado toast photo?” It’s a vicious cycle, but there’s something oddly therapeutic about writing. No tweets, no likes, no notifications… just me and my notebook, chilling like we’re back in the 90s. And then—bam—I get hit by the modern world.

Always One Glove Away From a Duel

 I am, at all times, approximately one glove away from issuing a formal duel.

Not for dramatic historical reasons. I have not been insulted in parliament. No one has slandered my family name. Nobody has stolen my horse, my land, or my prized goose.

No.

My duels are reserved for the truly serious offences of modern life.

For example: when I hold a door open for someone and they walk through without saying thank you. Not even a nod. Not even the awkward half-smile people give when they realise they’ve made eye contact with a stranger and now must acknowledge the shared burden of existing.

Just… silence.

They pass through the doorway as if the door opened automatically through the power of advanced architecture.

And in that moment my brain quietly loads the software for 18th-century honour culture.

Internally, I remove a glove.

Very slowly.

The glove is imaginary, obviously, but the intent is very real.

I drop it onto the pavement.

“Sir,” I say in my mind, to the man who has just treated my act of door-holding charity like a natural weather phenomenon, “you have wounded my honour and also slightly my wrist which has now been holding this door for seven full seconds.”

Around us, in my imagination, a small crowd gathers. A pigeon watches with interest. Someone whispers, “Good heavens.”

“Tomorrow at dawn,” I continue, “we meet behind the Tesco Express car park. Pistols at ten paces. Or, if you prefer, a strongly worded conversation about basic manners.”

Queue-related crimes are even more dangerous.

There is something about a queue that feels sacred. It is a quiet social agreement between strangers: we are all suffering together, but we will suffer in the correct order.

When someone casually drifts into the middle of the queue like a confused duck who has wandered into traffic, my brain again reaches for the glove.

I approach them mentally with calm dignity.

“Excuse me,” I imagine saying, “but I believe you have accidentally committed a queue violation of the highest order.”

The glove falls.

Gasps ripple through the imaginary spectators.

“Dawn,” I announce. “Bring a witness and a basic understanding of fairness.”

Of course, in reality, none of this happens.

In reality I simply stand there like a normal human being, smiling politely in that very British way which roughly translates to:

“🙂 I will remember this forever but do absolutely nothing about it.”

But the duel energy remains.

Because modern society runs almost entirely on tiny acts of politeness. Doors held open. Thank-yous exchanged. Queues respected. Escalators exited without stopping dead at the top like someone who has just discovered gravity for the first time.

These are small things, but they are the duct tape holding civilisation together.

Remove too many and suddenly we’re all wandering around supermarkets like confused goats with shopping baskets.

So I will continue holding doors.

I will continue respecting queues.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, a quiet duelling field behind a Tesco Express will remain permanently reserved for anyone who forgets their manners.

I already have the glove ready.

Just in case.

Jack The Cat The Boss Of The House

 Jack the Cat (Also Known as the Real Boss of the House)

Every household has someone who believes they are in charge. Sometimes it’s the parent with the calendar. Sometimes it’s the person who controls the television remote. In our house, however, the true authority is a cat called Jack.

Jack did not exactly arrive with a formal announcement. There was no ceremony, no grand speech. One day he was simply there, exploring corners, inspecting furniture, and behaving as if the entire house had always been his.

Cats have a remarkable ability to do that.

Within a very short time Jack had identified the most important locations in the house. These included the warmest windowsill, the chair that gets the best afternoon sun, and the precise spot on the sofa that guarantees maximum human attention. It was clear that he had conducted a thorough survey of the property.

Naturally, he now considers these places to be officially his.

Morning in our house usually begins with Jack. Not because we have carefully trained him to wake us up, but because Jack believes breakfast should be served at a very specific time and he is extremely committed to maintaining that schedule.

His first method is staring.

If you have never been woken up by a cat staring at you from very close range, it is quite an experience. You slowly become aware that something is watching you, open your eyes slightly, and discover two very determined cat eyes looking directly into your soul.

If the staring does not work, Jack moves on to Phase Two: gentle paw taps.

These are not aggressive. They are polite, persistent reminders that someone has forgotten an important responsibility. Eventually someone wakes up properly and the day begins with the ceremonial opening of the cat food.

Jack supervises this process carefully.

Once breakfast has been served and eaten, Jack begins his daily inspection of the house. This involves walking through each room as though he is checking that everything is functioning correctly.

If someone is working on a laptop, Jack appears almost instantly. He has a special interest in keyboards and seems convinced that the best place for a cat to sit is directly on the keys you are trying to use.

If you move him, he returns.

If you move him again, he returns again.

This is clearly a battle of patience and Jack is very confident in his abilities.

Books are also one of Jack’s favourite targets. Whenever someone sits down to read, Jack approaches with great interest and carefully settles himself directly on the page. Not next to the book. Not nearby. Directly on the exact sentence you were reading.

He is extremely precise.

Craft activities attract him as well. As soon as paper, scissors, or glue appear on the table, Jack arrives to investigate. This is particularly exciting if there are small objects that can be pushed slowly towards the edge of the table.

Cats, as everyone knows, take great pride in gravity experiments.

The fascinating thing about Jack is that he behaves as though all of these activities are his responsibility. He is not simply wandering through the house. He is supervising. He observes everything with quiet concentration, occasionally offering assistance by sitting on the most important object in the room.

Of course, such important work requires regular rest breaks.

Jack takes his rest very seriously. During the day he can usually be found asleep in a variety of locations, each chosen for maximum comfort and warmth. The windowsill is a favourite when the sun appears, although the sofa is also an excellent option.

Freshly folded laundry is perhaps the ultimate prize.

There is something about a neat pile of warm clothes that attracts cats instantly. You can spend twenty minutes carefully folding everything, turn around for two seconds, and when you look back there will be a cat sitting proudly on top of the entire pile.

Jack does this with remarkable speed.

He also sleeps in positions that appear completely impossible. Sometimes he curls up into a tiny ball. Sometimes he stretches across the sofa like a furry ruler. Occasionally he ends up with one paw in the air and his head tilted backwards in a way that makes you wonder how it can possibly be comfortable.

But apparently it is.

One of the nicest things about having a cat like Jack is how naturally he becomes part of everyday life. At first a pet feels like a new addition to the house. Everything is unfamiliar and you spend time learning their habits and personality.

Then slowly, without really noticing, they become part of the routine.

Jack is there in the mornings while the house wakes up. He is there in the afternoon when things are busy. And in the evening, when everyone finally sits down, he usually appears to claim a comfortable spot nearby.

Sometimes he curls up next to someone on the sofa. Sometimes he sits slightly further away, observing the room like a thoughtful little supervisor.

Occasionally he decides that attention is required immediately and walks directly across whoever is sitting down. Cats are not particularly concerned about personal space.

Jack also has strong opinions about doors.

Closed doors are unacceptable. If a door is closed, Jack will sit beside it and look offended until someone opens it. Once the door is opened, he may or may not actually go through it. Sometimes he simply wanted the option available.

This seems to make perfect sense to him.

There are also the mysterious evening moments when Jack suddenly decides that running very fast around the house is an excellent idea. One minute everything is quiet, and the next minute there is a small blur of fur racing down the hallway as though he has remembered an extremely important appointment.

Cats, it seems, occasionally operate on invisible schedules.

Despite all of this chaos, Jack adds something special to the house. Pets have a way of doing that. They bring small moments of humour and comfort into ordinary days.

A cat sleeping in the sun, a quiet purr while you sit on the sofa, or the sudden appearance of a furry supervisor on your keyboard can completely change the mood of a day.

Jack may not help with the cooking, the cleaning, or the writing, but he is always nearby when these things happen.

And every household could probably benefit from a supervisor who occasionally falls asleep halfway through the

Board games were one of my great childhood joys… and one of my greatest terrors

Board games were one of my great childhood joys—and one of my greatest terrors. I adored the click of dice, the scramble of pieces on the board, the thrill of a close finish. But every time my mum sat across from me, all of that joy came wrapped in dread. She didn’t cheat—but she played like losing wasn’t an option, and winning wasn’t complete without absolute mastery. They say you learn through losing, but her version of victory taught me just how painful—and isolating—that lesson could feel.

So, what’s it like to return to the world of board games as an adult? In many ways, it feels like stepping into familiar yet strangely new territory. The memories of childhood game nights, full of tension and high stakes, bubble back to the surface. But this time, I’m an adult—no longer the fearful child at the table, yet still, at times, haunted by the ghost of those old anxieties. My mother’s competitive spirit looms large. If I so much as mentioned I had a copy of Dungeons and Dragons, I’d be accused of trying to summon the devil—or perhaps just channeling an 80s-inspired look with bad haircuts and thick, obligatory NHS glasses.

Returning to board games as an adult can be a deeply emotional experience, often bringing a mixture of nostalgia, anxiety, and freedom. The excitement of revisiting old favorites clashes with a more grown-up understanding of the world—and what it means to truly enjoy a game, win or lose. If you were like me, the game’s outcome once felt like life or death; now, with some distance, it’s more about fun, strategy, and camaraderie. It’s a journey from competition to connection, from anxiety to enjoyment. But I can’t help but wonder: has the meaning of "winning" evolved, or is it still lurking under the surface?

Glue ear and fitting in.

What do I love about being a mum or Mummy, mm tough one I could go a sugary sentimental journey but hat just not me. So what I love the most perhaps the up most is arguing with my son.

A puzzling choice , not a knee jerk reaction of a other? read on then you will see why I love with my son after all every good story has a truely heart felt conclusion doesn't it.

Well when J was born he  was a normal baby until all the problems started happening, the constant eczema which is inherited. The sudden coughing fits and gastric problems. the fussy eating, the projectile vomiting.

As he grew then there was the sudden tiredness and falling asleep anywhere ( asthma ) the allergy to food colourings. The inability to live my side, his allergy to cats ( we had to get rid of our cat)s. yes J was one nervous child constant trips to the hospital seeing various medical professionals.

Then more problems came then there was the problem with him being slightly sugar slow and then the bouts of anemia.

Whilst I appreciate these problems aren't as severe as many problems experience with their child of children it is still heartbreaking as well..

Throughout out this I had noticed  that J was not communicating , he had passed his baby hearing test hardly rocket science when he took it.

J was born in September 1998 and looking at an entry from his health book dated June 2000 that he has made little progress with his speech. The silly health visitor said his comprehension appeared good, well it wasn't I assure you. The toing and froing continued with the health visitors still ignoring me. This continued until around October 2001 when J still wasn't really speaking. Eventually after basically a sit in protest at the doctors we got a referral to the hospital where he was diagnosed with Glue ear. He had his operation to have grommets inserted after the usual long weight for an the operation.

Progress was slow but really came into its own on a holiday to Center Parcs in March 2002 when he was three and a half We were on our bikes and J was in a child seat behind me, a squirrel ran in front of me and J said " Bloody Squirrel" and j repeated this all day.

J had been learning sign language at nursery and and a least now there was a focus on his language skills , of course this had now developed. He was a slow learner at Infant School because of his previous problems, nervous and clingy. We had  problems with parties etc he still wouldn't leave my side till he was nearly seven. I just plonked him into beavers one day and ran , same with football cruel but kind and as a result he developed.

So that's why I love arguing with him he has developed into a heartfelt young boy who knows his own mind and is making his own way in the world. He is an academic high fly er play rugby for our County , top sport mans for the schooll. Plays a musical instrument he is an all rounder. What more could I ask for than an argument about his sock draw...?