Oh December, you really have been the most obstructive of Mistresses! Between the engine going kaput in the car, the miserable black fingers of rising damp crawling through the living room walls, the drama of insisting a reluctant sixteen year old revise for mock GCSE exams unhelpfully...

One of the things I am terribly good at is tuning out all the bodily signals telling me to stop. To pause. To rest. To turn away from the screen and put down the darn mop. To listen. To hush the must-do’s and to allow myself to sit in the quiet silence of nothing.

While I remain a dedicated...

There are words in this life no sane woman wants to hear. Namely, “I’m really sorry but I have dripped fish juice all the way from the kitchen to the front door and I haven’t got time to sort it out, sooooooo sorry, byeeeee, mwah!“

Fish juice!! At seven forty-five in the...

Up until mid- November I am terribly blase about Christmas, and then just like that I am a woman in a fluster. Madonna of the Carrier Bag. She who must not return home from even the most irrelevant of trips unless she is clutching something that will be wrapped ready to shove under the...

One of the statements I hear most often from the women I coach is that when it comes to creating domestic routines and rituals they simply don't know where to start because the whole house feels overwhelming.

And oh how I sympathise.

For it takes no time at all for me to lose control of...

Now then, did I ever tell you about the night I had a torrid time? Finley was at his drum lesson and to pass the time while I waited for him, I took myself to Tesco and rather randomly bought a slow cooker. Feeling rather pleased with myself I pushed my trolley into the dark car-park, bent...