Author: Jenny’s Brave New World!

Walking down its wide, tree-lined avenues it’s not hard to see why Buenos Aires has been described as the Paris of South America! Some of the city’s buildings are a study in Art Deco elegance running alongside grand, airy boulevards and lush green plazas and parks. Classical architecture is the dominant feature in Recoleta and Bohemian San Telmo, with its cobbled streets, showcase the faded grandeur of once impressive European-style buildings.

Our expert, friendly guide took us to the centre of the city, past the emblematic Obelisk and into the Plaza de Mayo, the home to so many revolutions and protests over the years! From there we visited the Metropolitan Cathedral of Buenos Aires. San Martin is revered across much of South America as the great liberator who helped free Argentina, Chile and Peru from Spanish rule in the early 1800’s. In fact, in Argentina he occupies an almost mythical status, rather like the combination of George Washington and Wellington!

The mausoleum itself is striking and unexpectedly dramatic! A large black sarcophagus contains San Martin’s remains which are permanently guarded by the regiment he founded, the famous Granaderos. Their stillness and ceremonial uniforms add a real sense of gravity and reverence. Around the tomb are symbolic female statues representing Argentina, Chile and Peru. The atmosphere inside was hushed, a contrast when stepping in from the traffic and energy of the Plaza de Mayo. Not having any links to South America, I still found the mausoleum unexpectedly moving!

The government building, the Casa Rosada House, or the Pink House, flanked the Plaza. Yes, it’s actually painted pink! It’s Argentina’s presidential palace and one of the defining landmarks of the city. One of the most iconic images associated with this grandiose building is that of Eva Peron standing on the balcony addressing huge crowds alongside Juan Peron in the 1940’s and ‘50’s!

We then headed, by car, to a non-salubrious area called La Boca, meaning ‘The Mouth’, referring to the mouth of the Riochuela River. Many centuries ago early settlers and ships arrived at a rough dockside district which became populated by poor Genoese Italian immigrants. These immigrants built simple corrugated-metal houses from shipyard materials and painted them with leftover marine paint. This created a famous patchwork explosion of reds, blues, yellows and greens that still define La Boca to this day! It felt, on the one hand and depending where you were, wonderfully alive yet slightly absurd because someone dressed like Diego Maradona (yes, they’re football crazy) is trying to convince you to take a photograph of him and pay for it!

I wasn’t comfortable walking around the couple of streets our guide told us would be safe for tourists. It felt rough and, sitting in a bar having a drink in a secluded garden, made me feel uncomfortable. Not only was it over-touristy but also had a threatening vibe. I was glad when we met up with our guide and could get out! Alas, that afternoon, one of our rare free times, my husband decided to go back, close to this non-salubrious part of the city, to visit a train museum. I’m here to tell the tale so we obviously survived!

Our last night was spent having dinner and being entertained at the Rojo Tango Show, apparently the most luxurious and theatrical tango dinner experience in Buenos Aires. It’s situated in a hotel in the redeveloped docklands area of Puerto Madero, ultra stylish and very modern. It was intimate rather than enormous with dim lighting, mirrored walls and dancers appearing almost inches from our table. Never been to an old Parisian cabaret club I could imagine the likeness when comparisons were made.

We sat in front of the band, not ideal, but still found the show thoroughly enjoyable and not too loud! The choreography was dramatic and sensual, which is what the tango is all about! There is an eternal Buenos Aires tango debate questioning whether these dances are authentic or just sophisticated tourist theatre. I’m personally not bothered! Not an expert by any means I just soaked up the glamour, atmosphere and the drama. A memorable night out!

Buenos Aires has stayed with me, albeit I only spent three days there. It was beautiful with its grand avenues, faded mansions and wonderful purple jacaranda trees. A city of elegance worn slightly thin around the edges! I remember that graffiti, a lot of it, the battered taxis, old busses and the constant noise, especially in the Plaza de Mayo. There definitely was glamour here once as traces still remain. It’s just that now it’s got mixed up with graffiti, inflation, exhaust fumes, a lot of political unrest and stubborn pride!

I’ve left with memories of imperfect yet spectacular landmarks, the grandeur inside San Martin’s mausoleum, the Pink Palace and the edginess of La Boca. I really enjoyed the visually stunning and highly entertaining night at the tango show. Buenos Aires has got under my skin. I’d love to go back !

There is no relationship more complicated, emotionally charged or deeply committed than the one between the British public and the weather. During the long winter months we become weather martyrs. Every conversation begins with the same exhausted, dis-gruntled sigh.

‘It’s a bit grim today, isn’t it?’

The skies are grey for so long that we forget colours exist. We have to look at photographs to remind ourselves that we have seen a blue sky, once, in our garden, a long time ago! We shuffle around wrapped in umpteen layers like deformed onions. We complain about damp socks, black ice and the exhorbitant heating bill.

By February the entire nation has developed the complexion of an unbaked scone. The sky has settled over us like a damp woollen blanket that we can’t find the energy to shake off. Entire weeks have passed where the sky has never fully committed to daylight. You go to work in the dark and come home in the dark. If you’re lucky you’ve looked out of a window and briefly caught a glimpse of the sun reflected in a puddle!

Everything has become wet. Not dramatically wet, like a tropical storm. No, winter produces a far more debilitating form of moisture. It’s a permanent dampness that seeps gradually into coats, carpets, gloves and bones.

Washing never dries properly. Radiators become crowded exhibition spaces for socks and slightly sour-smelling thick jumpers. Windows develop condensations thick enough to write despairing messages like, ‘Get me out of here!’

By the end of February the British longing for summer becomes almost spiritual in nature. We fantasise about heat. The mere possibility of sunshine almost transforms our mood. We dream of sitting outside in garden chairs, the smell of cut grass and stand next to the radiator to imagine feeling sunlight warming our bones. Summer isn’t just the weather, it’s freedom, happiness and proof that life in Britain is worth enduring!

And then we have a few days in Spring when temperatures rise as high as 30C! What we have so ardently wished for has actually happened! Are we happy?

Alas, the fantasy of our perfect English summer begins to collapse almost immediately! The air now feels thick and oppressive. It feels as if the entire country has been sealed inside a greenhouse. British homes, lovingly engineered to trap every last molecule of heat during winter, suddenly become brick ovens. Conservatories reach temperatures suitable for baking bread. Upstairs bedrooms turn hostile by mid afternoon and remain unbearable until dawn. We wander through shops purely for the air conditioning. The brilliant blue of the sky and the excitement of the sun warming our frozen aching bones, has mutated into a state of sweaty exhaustion and vocal irritation.

And then begins the complaints. This is the same nation that spent six months yearning for summer, desperate for heat, fantasising about relaxing in their gardens watching butterflies and bumble bees flitting around carefully nurtured flowerbeds. We now feel betrayed. We didn’t ask for this! We didn’t imagine being too hot to sleep. Every small movement becomes too onerous. It’s too hot inside. It’s blistering hot outside! Even furniture seems to radiate warmth. Clothes cling, hair sticks to the back of necks and every slight movement produces a layer of perspiration that leaves you feeling permanently unclean! Oh to feel cool again!

The elderly dramatically announce that they can’t remember heat like this! It’s got to be ‘global warming’. During a particularly cold spell a couple of months ago it was ‘climate change’! News presenters stand beside glowing red weather maps and the government issues warnings to keep cool and stay hydrated.

Sleep becomes the greatest casualty. Lack of sleep, heat exhaustion, extreme discomfort, all combine to make this heatwave ‘unbearable’! Conversations now revolve around when this heat wave will break and if we’ll have a thunderstorm to bring respite!

Yet there is a comfort in this shared misery. Perhaps this is the real magic of the British weather. We’re all in it together! Deep down we don’t actually want perfect weather! Perfect weather would rob us of our favourite national pastime: collectively suffering through whatever the sky decides to throw at us next!

One morning, early in March, we left a drizzly, cold English day and headed off on the first leg of our South American expedition. It was meant to be a holiday but, looking at the itinerary, it was going to be anything but!

Many hours and no sleep later, after losing six hours along the way, we landed in Sao Paolo. We were collected by our personal guide and driven to our hotel. His name was Marco and his English was excellent.

Bright and early the next morning, after a delicious breakfast, our guide and driver were waiting to take us on the first leg of our journey to the Iguazu falls. We crossed the Tancredo Neves bridge over the Iguazu river which forms the border between Brazil and Argentina and entered Argentina.

Here there are three sections of the falls, the Upper Circuit, Lower Circuit and the Devil’s Throat situated in the Iguazu National Park, which is enormous. Elevated metal walkways, naturals jungle paths and ecological trains carry visitors deep into the jungle. What makes the Argentinian side of the falls special is that it offers a variety of perspectives. You can become immersed in the falls rather than just simply observe them!

The Upper Circuit was easy walking, offering spectacular panoramic views across the river to Brazil. The sense of scale from the lip of the falls was extraordinary. Peering down over the edges where the water gathered speed, you realised that the river was not just one waterfall. It was hundreds of channels, islands and cascades spreading for miles.

The Lower Circuit was more dramatic and physical. There were more stairs to climb and the humidity and spray became more noticeable. Here the magnificent waterfalls towered above us, filling our vision and drowning out any conversation. You coukd feel the vibration through the railings. The pathways curved through thick vegetation and emerged at astonishing viewpoints almost directly beside the cascades.

The Devil’s Throat was the emotional climax of the Park. You reached it via a long walkway. At first the river was deceptively calm and you saw fish gliding peacefully beneath the platforms. Then gradually the noise of the falls grew louder. Mist began to rise. The flow of the river became stronger. By the time you reached the final platform you were suspended over an immense boiling void of white water and spray with everything disappearing into a dense mist. This magnificence and sheer primeval power of nature took your breath away.

While around 80% of the falls are on the Argentinian side, Brazil reveals the entire stage. We saw the jungle, cliffs, mist, river and hundreds of cascades unfolding into one sweeping panorama. Our guide and driver took us through the subtropical forest in Brazil and on to the main trail, our first view across the canyon.

It was also the start of my severe irritation with selfish egotistical visitors, mainly young girls, taking photographs and waving their selfie sticks with gay abandon! Where some of us were trying to actually look at the view and absorb the moment, these idiots were continually capturing themselves in it! The walkways were often narrow with small platforms overlooking parts of the falls. Singles or larger groups would suddenly stop for selfies or photos and traffic would grind to a halt. We were forced into awkward shuffling queues, often having to miss the views altogether.

I really feel that travelling today has become performative! It’s not about sightseeing but more about proving that you were there! Watching these endless self-obsessed photo-taking gimps consumed by social media, was as irritating as it was sad. The beauty and natural wonder of the Iguazu Falls had been demoted to a mere backdrop. For them no one else existed. Queues were invisible. Blocking the entire platform was perfectly reasonable and the laws of spacial awareness ceased to exist! Instead of ‘Look at this extraordinary view’ it became ‘Look at me, with my wind-swept hair, great lighting, pretending-that-I’m-not-posing and false laughter,’ while one of the greatest spectacles of nature was roaring behind them! Unfortunately it was contagious! One elaborate selfie session encouraged another. Soon the entire viewing platform resembled a photographic studio! Mainly young girls, pouting, backing into strangers, shouting instructions, rotating and demanding retakes, totally obstructing the majestic, amazing, breathtakingly wonderful view of the glorious Devil’s Throat.

Rant over😂

Unfortunately and sadly, that’s my memory of the Iguazu Falls in Brazil. The highlight of the viewing platform extended towards the Devil’s Throat. It was unforgettable, but not in the way that I would have hoped. Instead of walking to the end, looking out across the river, seeing the waterfalls crashing down on every side and watching in awe as torrents of water poured into the Devil’s Throat, I stood drenched and stuck behind an immovable human shield!

I believe I should have been able to visually understand the scale of the falls, marvel at how the river breaks around forested islands before plunging over basalt cliffs. It should have felt less like a single waterfall and more like an entire landscape collapsing into space. Thanks ChatGPT!

And all selfie sticks and mobile phones should be banned!

There are few places where the true character of a nation is revealed more starkly than in a queue. Not in Parliament or a football match, but in the slow, cold stone purgatory of a post office at 11:00 am on a wet Tuesday morning.

The British queue is special. It’s not loud and it doesn’t riot. It doesn’t brandish placards. Instead, it tightens its jaw and soldiers on. But sometimes a figure will appear in the periphery, performing a curious half hover. They’re not quite in the queue but neither are they not in it. They might glance down at their phone with a studied air of distraction. And then, suddenly, with breathtaking audacity disguised as innocence, they glide forward, positioning themselves fractionally ahead.

The whole queue stiffens. No one says a word. A look travels down the line like a silent telegram of outrage and disbelief. A handbag is moved from one shoulder to the other, with meaning. A foot plants itself down more firmly. Somewhere a throat is cleared with surgical precision. Justice will be served, not confrontational, but felt.

A British queue is based on a strict moral code. It’s invisible, sacred and enforced entirely through passive aggression. Level one is the ‘look’ which serves as a warning. This could escalate to level two, which is the ‘audible sigh’. Then, in extreme circumstances, there is the comment, not delivered to the offender, but into the air. The offender will always know. Reputations are formed and destroyed in the subtle choreography of foot shuffling, and handbag adjusting.

As a nation we endure perpetual drizzle, bus replacements and mild constitutional crises with no complaint. But let someone dare attempt to barge in front of us with a ‘can I just quickly ask something’ at the counter, they’ll feel it! They will feel that tightening of polite fury humming like static!

And yet, for all its suppressed indignation, the queue remains one of our finest achievements. We would not have it any other way. The British queue is our quiet masterpiece, our triumph of patience and principle. It is democracy at its most profound. First come, first served.

Let me say this, firmly, kindly and without the faintest tremor of irony. Civilisation does not rest upon grand speeches or sweeping reforms but on the quiet integrity of standing where you are meant to stand! We don’t wait our turn because we are timid, but because we are principled. We would never surge, we advance with discipline.

In the end the British queue is our silent creed. Greatness lies not in surging ahead, but in waiting with patience, respect and just the faintest hint of moral superiority.

Winter in Cheshire is not so much a season as a state of moisture. It could sometimes be an instagram photo of snow dusted rooftops and rosy cheeks but it’s usually more committed to drizzle rather than drama.

We have a different kind of cold here. It seeps into scarves, gloves and clothes. Even if the temperature isn’t freezing, the dampness of a winter’s day gets into your bones. It’s difficult to feel properly warm. Looking out at the garden, those parts not submerged in water or ice, it’s stopped trying to impress, just given up. The bright greens and floral shades of summer have been replaced by a palette of browns and greys. The back lawn, once confidently green, has retreated into squelchy, wet, moss filled resignation.

But mud has become the dominant feature. Cheshire mud is special. It’s not aggressive, it’s patient. It lies in wait until you step in it, then it clings to your boots and travels home with you, determined to become part of the household. Paths edges have become blurred and walks turn into negotiations between progress and dignity. Wellies are the footwear of choice as fashion waits in the wings for the mud, ice and snow to make way for a warmer, drier climate.

The sky has lowered itself, not dramatically, just enough to feel like its forehead is pressing against yours. Rain has become less of an event and more of a background condition! It’s usually a fine, needling drizzle that floats sideways so using an umbrella is a waste of time.

Winter in Cheshire slows you down whether you want it to or not! It’s difficult to power walk through mizzle. It’s more of a shuffle in footwear that gets heavier with each step and puddles that grow wider and deeper to navigate. Life seems to get smaller as outings stay closer to home in case the sky decides to open properly. Occasionally it gets tired of a drizzle or a polite shower and sends thick sheets of water to hit the ground with force. The drops are large and relentless falling in vertical, dense curtains. It often arrives suddenly, as if a tap has been fully turned on.

Winter in Cheshire requires endurance. It teaches us to find warmth through thick socks, boots and layers of clothing which we peel off when we get back inside. But there is humour in it too in the way some pretend that it’s not ‘that cold’! The weather is the common talking point that brings us together. Conversations almost exclusively revolve around how wet and cold it is now compared to the old days. In winter the blame moves from global warming to climate change. But, occasionally, the sun will appear for a few minutes or even a whole day, causing widespread excitement and mild disbelief.

Underneath the jokes there’s something quietly poignant about a Cheshire winter. It strips things back. The year exhales. You notice what’s still out there when everything else has been washed into shades of brown and grey. It’s not pretty but it’s honest. This is how life is going to be for a while so just put up with it!

Spring will come. It always does. Fields and gardens will turn green again and the sky will lift. But for now we must muddle through the damp and the cold.We’ll wrap up warm and take comfort in knowing that we’ve been here before and survived. Our winter is so predictable. By the time it settles in properly we know the routine.

It will do its usual thing and we’ll do ours. Before we know it, Spring will be here. Snowdrops are already out and bulbs have burst through the muddy soil. Winter will drift off and Cheshire we love will emerge. Bright and Green and Perfect. 👠

2026, for me, isn’t a year that needed announcing. I haven’t wanted a trumpet blast and I didn’t want reinvention. I just wanted a soft, realistic continuation of 2025.

We spent New Year’s Eve with our dear friends and saw in 2026 watching the amazing fireworks display in London. We sat in the comfort of our sitting room, relaxed, and mellow. We drank champagne and chatted into the early hours. That was all the excitement I needed. When Big Ben had struck midnight the New Year had arrived, just another day! Perfect!

January the 1st slipped in under low skies with the little bit of sunlight pacing itself to last as long as possible! I have made no resolutions, no dramatic declarations, no overt gestures! This isn’t me being pessimistic. I’ve become more discerning! I want less noise and more listening, a quiet gratitude, a calm stepping forward into another year rather than a giant leap into failed resolutions and unrealistic expectations.

I want the arrival of 2026 to be about contentment. I’m more confident that life doesn’t have to be filled with enforced enthusiasm, remaining forever hopeful that the next year will be better. Is this maturity or have I become a cynic? Perhaps it’s an age thing, but not an old age thing! Just able to reap the rewards of a long, fulfilled life. Right?

Time alone will tell.

The New Year has brought with it a cold arctic blast. We’ve had snow and minus temperatures for the last few days. The lane at the bottom of our garden is an ice rink so can’t do my usual daily walks. But I am snug and warm, gazing into a fire burning brightly.

The fire has settled, flames folding and unfolding, all soft gold and amber at the edges, white hot at its heart. It burns with a quiet assurance and an unhurried rhythm. As I sit, mesmerised, the fire suddenly gathers itself and flares up with a sharp intake of breath before sending licks of flames shooting upwards. The hearth is crowned with bright light, the flames brushing the stones as if testing its limits before settling back into a steady glow.

Outside the window snow lies thick and soundless, muting the world with its shades of grey and white, almost theatrical, waiting for the audience applause. Inside the warmth gathers pace, creeping in politely, not rushing. It unfurls into the room, seeping into walls, furniture, floorboards, all those nooks and crannies that hold onto the cold. Gradually I feel my shoulders relaxing as my body yields to the unarguable comfort of it all. The crackle and sighs of the flames work like a lullaby. Thoughts lose their sharp edges and become less demanding. The room grows heavy with heat and calm. My eyelids thicken. Staying awake has begun to feel like an act of mild defiance rather than intentional.

Choosing a smooth crossing from 2025 into 2026, with no forced optimism and no self motivated speeches, feels right. It was never about standing still, avoiding the New Year, just welcoming it in sensibly, not with a bang, but a nod, which feels entirely appropriate. 👠

Christmas is the time for spending money, the time shops rub their hands in glee and credit cards get maxed out! It’s also the time of year when products which don’t exist all year, make their appearance. They hypnotise us into thinking that, without buying them, Christmas can’t be celebrated.

I’ll start with Panettone. For some reason this bread / fruit cake is only available during the Christmas season. It hails from Milan but is readily available in many parts of the world. Not everyone knows what to do with it, me included! The pyramid shape causes a slicing issue for a start. The next challenge is how to serve it. Is it with tea, like a cake, or toast, like bread? I’ve bought it once and, by the end of January, only one slice had been taken. That was one of my many carb based monuments to an impulse buy!

Then there are those giant luxury shortbread biscuit tins that weigh a ton! To open the tin you need two weight lifter’s arms and an ultra supportive core! It’s my own fault that I struggle with them each year! They go a small way to alleviate feelings of inadequacy for not being a good housewife and baking them myself!

Mulled wine. That’s another thing that makes its annual appearance. It makes the kitchen smell like Christmases, past, present and future, it’s so pungent! Cheap red wine is poured into a pot. Cinnamon sticks, star anise, sugar and an orange, studded with cloves gets added to the simmering cauldron. Last comes nutmeg, sprinkled with gay abandon and brandy, rum or Cointreau. Rarely can I have more than one small glass. It’s either too sweet, too spicy or too much like warm Ribena. A seasonal witchcraft performance in the name of a Christmas ritual!

Christmas pudding is also a once-a-year tradition. When my mother in law was alive she would make her three sons a Christmas pudding each year. We’d not eat the new one but bring out last year’s delight which had been liberally doctored with brandy. The fumes alone would take you over the driving limit! I loved the smell of Christmas puddings boiling merrily on her hob. The kitchen windows would steam up and the whole house smell of treacle and spice. One of my favourite memories when moving to England! In South Africa we seldom had a traditional Christmas dinner and the puddings were either bought or non existent.

My mother in law used to also bake us our annual Christmas cake. She remains sorely missed but my husband has been known to use her recipe and make his own. Alas, he didn’t marry a domestic goddess! Baking is something that I simply cannot get excited about but it does make me feel a bit of a failure at this time of year! Baking requires patience, precision and a willingness to follow instructions. All I can offer is a distinct lack of enthusiasm and a wish that I could be doing something more enjoyable somewhere else! Thankfully shops do exist that offer delicious cakes far better than any I could produce. Perhaps I should consider buying them not as a sign of weakness, but skilful delegation and damage control!

So, as we embark on another Christmas and the shops begin stock-piling their annual delicacies, I’ve started my own Christmas tradition. I’ve bought a few tins of Quality Street chocolates before they rocket up in price. Instead of mulled wine we prefer champagne so have a few bottles in readiness for the festive season. My husband has started his annual fix of mince pies which will continue for as long as they’re available in supermarkets. Something else that I could bake but don’t!

Living in England I do celebrate a traditional Christmas, either at home or with close family. We have turkey or goose with all the trimmings. Pigs in blankets, cranberry sauce, brandy butter, the delicious cheeseboard and, of course, an outsourced Christmas pudding and cake! I can highly recommend certain supermarkets, butchers and bakeries for their excellent culinary delights.

If you are lucky enough to have been brought up in a home where the Christmas traditions were imbedded into your family from generations past, I’m sure you enjoy this special time. Recipes might be written on yellowing paper with butter stains and splashes of brandy. It’s those feelings of continuity, the quiet reassurance that, even though there has been monumental change over the years, some things will always remain the same.

When the Christmas pudding is presented in a ball of fire after the delicious roast has been enjoyed, I look around the table and feel very grateful. This is the unmistakeable flavour of love and belonging. It’s the true taste of Christmas. 👠

November arrives quietly, almost apologetically. The blazing spectacle of October has passed, leaving behind bare branches and, until the first frost, the last remnants of a summer garden. It’s a bridge between the vibrant colours of autumn and the quiet anticipation of winter. Even though we can experience warm days, summer has definitely moved on, blown away by the cooler northern winds.

There’s a quiet nostalgia to this month. Mornings can be misty and it seems to rain more often than usual. November has its own distinct smell of damp leaves softening on the ground, releasing that rich, woody aroma as they break down. It’s a smell that makes me breathe a little deeper and remind myself that the seasons are turning, just as they always have.

Trees shed the last of their golden or russet coloured leaves, carpeting footpaths, country lanes and gardens in thick mulchy layers. The leaves drift down, almost in slow motion, the late stragglers clinging on for as long as possible. Autumn eases itself out on a tide of senses, definitely, for me, the most noticeable being smell. Not only is this relevant when walking outside but also in the house. There’s a familiar perfume to a fire. The resinous tang of burning wood, the faint sweetness from the sap and the woody smokiness offers an invitation to settle down, relax and unwind. And then there’s the comforting sound of the fire when it pops and crackles and emits soft, contented sighs.

We can feel that it’s November. The shorter afternoons vanish abruptly into darkness and the thin light during the day is the result of the sun never climbing quite high enough in the sky. It stretches shadows right across the garden, even at midday, as if it’s running out of energy, just bright enough to mark the hours but not strong enough to offer the warmth or brilliance of those glorious summer days.

Orchards have produced their rich harvests and berries and apples have complemented meals in the forms of pies, crumbles and delicious juices. Those familiar smells of cinnamon and ginger become more prevalent. It’s the time for small rituals. Pulling out winter scarves and hats and shutting windows against the biting winds. Tastes change as we stock up cupboards and freezers for stews instead of salads and barbecues.

Nature is doing the same. We see squirrels stashing the last of their supplies in gardens and can imagine hedgehogs curling up to hibernate as the fields settle into their winter rest. Gone are the brilliant summer colours, to be replaced by muted greens, reds, golds and browns. Grey skies replace the blues of summer. The cold air nips at unprotected fingertips and those warm woolly scarves feel extra comforting. Senses are definitely heightened as autumn slowly disappears.

November opens with a bang on the fifth. Bonfire night marks the failed Gunpowder Plot of 1605 when Guy Fawkes and his conspirators planned to blow up parliament. Over the centuries the political edge has softened but the tradition remains. Families gather in parks or village fields waiting in eager anticipation for the firework displays. The skies become a stage as each dynamic explosion briefly reveals the silhouettes of trees, rooftops and hillsides.

The bonfire itself takes on a character of its own. Flames roar upwards, orange and gold, twisting and breathing like a living thing! Sparks fly off in little constellations, drifting away into the dark. Logs collapse inwards with satisfying thuds emitting waves of heat that warms your front while your back remains cold. The bonfire doesn’t only produce a distinctive scent of woodsmoke but also a primal sense that makes us instinctively lean in, hands outstretched, cheeks glowing. We share the same moment, the heat, the darkness and the excitement, a strong community feel. In its own stubborn, British way, the inclement weather adds to the charm.

On the 11th of November we have time to reflect. It is one of the most solemn, dignified and quietly powerful days of the year. Remembrance Day marks the moment the guns fell silent at the end of the First World War. Over time it has grown into a day that honours, not only those who died during the two World Wars, but all those who have served in conflicts. It’s a national act of remembrance, quiet and deeply felt. In the days leading up to the 11th we pin poppies to coats and jackets. Wreathes are laid on stone memorials in villages, towns and cities. There is something very moving about communities coming together, generation after generation, honouring those they often never knew but feel connected to.

As November quietly slips away and autumn closes its final chapter, we begin to prepare mentally, physically and emotionally for the long, cold winter days ahead. November is subtle. It doesn’t shout for attention. It gently urges us to slow our pace, wrap up a little tighter and step, with calm acceptance, into December.👠

There must be something about airports that turns two otherwise functional, rational human beings into sleep-deprived, irrational versions of themselves! The night before the flight I set my alarm but wake up every hour to ensure I don’t oversleep. I’ve set it for a time that technically counts as ‘morning’ but only if I’m a dairy farmer or doing the milk rounds. This is because we have been advised to get to the airport three hours before the plane is due to take off. It’s take off time is 8:00 am.

The taxi is booked. My husband’s suitcase is already closed and weighed. I still have to pack my face creams and makeup so I need an extra half an hour to catch up. Travelling in my golden years was always going to be a relaxing pastime. I never factored in getting up at the crack of dawn to hear my husband muttering ‘This is ridiculous. There is absolutely no need to get to the airport three hours early to fly to Spain! Wake me up five minutes before the taxi’s due.’

Getting into the taxi after my last frenetic check of doors and windows, we wait for the usual ‘Have you got your passports?’ from the taxi driver. There is no response from my husband, who should have them in his bag, so I pass on the query. The look I receive says it all! ‘Yes,’ I reply cheerfully, ‘we’re ready to go’.

Arriving at the drop off zone the taxi driver pulls into a space, jumps out of the car, opens the boot and has most of the luggage out before we’ve even alighted. ‘We only have an allotted time to stay here before the cost escalates’ he reminds us as my husband is going through all the compartments in his man bag trying to find his wallet. ‘It’s in here somewhere’ he mutters as the taxi driver checks his watch again. Finally, taxi paid and bags gathered up, we make for the entrance.

Once inside the terminal, after wandering up and down to find our airline check in, we encounter the queue. The kind of queue that makes me wonder if we’ll ever get to the other side. ‘This,’ declares my husband who has morphed into ‘Victor Meldrew’, ‘is why sensible people don’t use this airport or prefer not to fly! Airports are a nightmare!’

The bag drop off is like a school exam. Everyone looks as if they know what they’re doing but most of them just wing it before calling an assistant. Walking up to the machine that expects you to register your passport, agree the flight number, then you must solemnly promise that you’ve packed and approved everything in your suitcase, before it will spit out your luggage ticket. Then it’s time to join another queue. When our suitcases finally trundle away on the belt, I feel like giving them a wave, wishing them the best of luck and hoping that we’ll get to see them soon.

Then we head for security where any remaining excitement goes to die!

Nothing brings out the irritation and sarcasm in ‘Victor’ like a long line snaking along at the speed of erosion! When we finally reach the trays I hear my husband mutter’ Oh great! Shoes off, belt off, jacket off, watch off, wonder why we don’t all just go through in our underwear!’ The cabin bags are placed on the conveyor belt and our trays filled before we head for the x-ray scanner.

This time it’s my tray that does a detour into the dark side where it’s selected for inspection. The first time ever because I am so careful. I had packed a plastic tub with my cereal, nuts, yoghurt and a drop of milk to eat at the airport. I never imagined that it would be deemed a weapon of mass destruction and have to be closely examined and potentially confiscated! I was asked to open the offending tub which is held aloft and taken to the manager for a second opinion. It’s then sent back through the scanner before given to me with a warning that it contained an unknown quantity of liquid. I’ll not do that again!

Finally, an hour later, we are once more fully clothed and heading through the Duty Free shops to find seats to while away one and a half hours before the boarding gate number is announced. Out come the phones, iPad, tablet and puzzles and, with a warm drink, manage to occupy us for an hour.

The last half an hour before the gate is announced feels less like thirty minutes and more like a small lifetime. Even the tricky crosswords are finished so the pair of us are staring at the departure board as though sheer willpower will divulge the state secret of our gate number and we can move on. We’re tired, frazzled and getting on each other’s nerves. And so we wait, marooned in airport limbo, where time stands still and the tannoy never shuts up!

Finally the gate number miraculously appears and we weave our way past zombie travellers until we reach our required gate, at the opposite end of the airport. Of course, reaching the gate doesn’t mean boarding the plane! We make our way to the small queue beginning to gather, proudly holding our boarding pass neatly tucked into our passport as we are in Group A. We’d be boarding the plane first! But no, deluded that Group A actually means something as we were in row 5, we never realised, in the joke that is airport logic, Group A means that we board the plane last!

We watch as all the other groups surge past us with mountains of cabin luggage, each determined to occupy an entire overhead locker on their own! With every bulging suit case or rucksack that waddles past us we become more annoyed and convinced that we’ll have to sit with our luggage on our laps!

But somehow, by miracle, luck or sheer determination, we eventually walk down the bridge, find the last overhead space and collapse into our seats. We buckle in as the engines roar into life. The air hostess launches herself into the safety briefing with cheerful optimism while I sit, glassy eyed, unable to concentrate.

Finally we’re airborne, leaving behind the queues and the chaos. At last the holiday can begin. We can relax for a few hours until we reach Spain and the airport nightmare starts all over again.👠

There is something really absurd about the self checkout. Supermarkets insist that it makes life easier. What it actually does is make me a part time employee with no training and no HR induction.

I walk into the supermarket feeling like a fully functional human being in possession of all my faculties. I leave feeling like my brain should be taken in for diagnostic testing!

I only ever use the self checkout if I have a few items. I don’t want to stand in a long queue behind people doing their Christmas shopping in early November or preparing for a war! I just want to get in, get out and go home!

My stress levels begin to rise as I walk up to the self checkout with my basket containing a loaf of bread, a pint of milk and a bottle of jam. That’s when I begin to hold an internal conversation.

‘It’s fine, relax, it’s only a machine and can’t hurt you! You are a grown woman! People have gone into space! You can surely manage to scan a barcode!’

The machine starts flashing options at me, giving me choices I don’t need or want. I press START but it’s not actually the start of the process. It’s the gateway to a series of interrogations. I put my basket down on the section marked BASKETS. Before I scan one single barcode it needs to know if I need a bag. I put my bag in the space provided and press ‘NO’.

And so the questions begin. Do I have a loyalty card? Am I paying by cash or credit card? Am I going bagless? I feel as if I’m entering a witness protection scheme. It is only after I have satisfied the machine by declaring my allegiance, my bag status and my future payment orientation, that it finally allows me to scan the first item! Unfortunately not all supermarkets follow the same process. They’re all different and all equally baffling!

I scan the loaf of bread. ‘Unexpected item in the bagging area’ the ludicrous machine informs me. That would be the item I have literally just scanned, the one I was told to scan three seconds ago! I now have to wait for assistance! It has summonsed the all knowing goddess of override who is currently helping six other people also fast becoming emotionally unravelled!

Finally the goddess arrives and looks at me disdainfully. She waves her magic wand at the machine while I start babbling excuses. ‘I did scan the loaf of bread’ I apologise. ‘I can’t understand how this has happened.’

I feel like a common criminal yet I’ve not knowingly done anything wrong! ‘Why is it so hard to scan a loaf of bread?’ I hear her thoughts. ‘It’s not rocket science!’ I silently reply as I stare back at her. ‘I should have gone to Waitrose and got an actual person to do this for me!’

‘You should be fine now’, she says patronisingly as I grab hold of the pint of milk. I reverently present it to the useless machine as if it’s a ceremonial offering. How can a piece of software make me feel so inferior? And, more to the point, why am I standing in front of it trying to justify myself? This is irrational and embarrassing. I can feel my blood pressure rising as I scan, re-scan, wait, re-scan, wait then hold my breath before emitting an internal scream! I scan the barcode again. I dare not flex a muscle and pray that it pings and I can move on.

After all this stress and mental degradation and I’ve finally scanned in the last item, the ludicrous machine asks me if I’d like to donate to charity? Am I ever going to get away from it? All these damn questions and all the while the queue behind me is growing longer. I’m becoming more flustered as I sense their irritation.

Finally I reach the end and point my credit card at another machine. Naively I think that I can now leave this ‘little shop of horrors’. But no, after fully dismantling my personality, dignity, confidence and emotional stability, it has the audacity to ask me, in a passive aggressive Mary Poppins voice, ‘How was your shopping experience today’?

Well, I’ll tell you!

It spiritually defeated me! I came in for a handful of items and am leaving questioning my eligibility to live amongst society. I’ve shaved ten IQ points off my cognitive functioning. I no longer feel like a capable adult! And there’s more! I don’t want convenience! I want a human cashier. I want someone to treat me like an equal.

Spending even longer at the supermarket than I ever dreamed possible I finally grab my bag and head for the exit. No one should ever experience this level of trauma when simply going to buy a loaf of bread, a pint of milk and a bottle of jam!👠