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Losing my senses

Nothing says you are clueless about what to buy someone like a gift voucher. Normally I would consider them a last resort, yet last Christmas, I received a rather more imaginative token.  I was presented with a card with an image which looked alarmingly like a dead body. Thankfully, the voucher was not for my own funeral, but entitled me to an hour’s float in a sensory deprivation tank. You could be forgiven for thinking of sensory deprivation as the latest hipster fad to come out of the wellness industry. While I had some reservations, I wanted to experience it…

Back in the saddle

It’s the kind of quiet Sunday morning made for cycling through the suburbs of Chorlton. Yet there is something out of the ordinary about one cyclist in particular. She speeds past, clad in skin tight jodhpurs with a whip balanced precariously in her basket. After almost a ten year break, I have taken up horseriding again. One of the twenty seven things I planned to do this year was to have a jumping lesson. Once was enough to make me resolve never to give it up again, repressing all thought of the expense or the embarrassment of cycling through Chorlton…

The Twenty Seven List

1990 – the year when Nelson Mandela was freed from prison, the year when Homer Simpson first graced our TV screens, and more importantly for this post, the year when I was born.  In 2017, I celebrated my twenty seventh birthday. I had always pictured myself at twenty seven as having a clear sense of purpose in life and no longer needing to ring my parents whenever something went wrong in my flat. Yet in the weeks preceding my twenty seventh birthday, I found myself drowning in a pit of existential dread with thirty a looming reality. Twenty seven is…

Why I Write

I would not like to say how many years it has taken to get to the point of writing this sentence. I have been struggling with the idea of writing a blog for some time now. Yet every time I sat down to write, I found myself drawn into a vortex of unattainable images; of scenes so idyllic they verge on the implausible, of flawlessly hewn bodies instagrammed to perfection, and of artfully rendered narratives absent of the suggestion of anything mundane or unpleasant. Without fail, each writing session would end with a blank page and a gnawing feeling of…