Definition of 'a busman’s holiday': a form of recreation in which one does something very similar to what one does for a living. One of my favourite ways to spend time in Gozo is aimless wandering through the back streets... Continue Reading →
In Victoria’s ArtHall, a wonderful airy white gallery space with bright blue doors and windows just steps from it-Tokk, this month as part of an exhibition ‘Erotic Cravings’ (runs until 7th April), there’s a large painting by Tomas Hed inspired... Continue Reading →
Gozo is a wonderland: whilst Lewis Carroll’s Alice wouldn’t recognise its terrain she surely would feel at home here. It may be a small and gentle Mediterranean island, but on this three-dimensional chequerboard of green and golden-browns, the roads take... Continue Reading →
Here’s a piece I wrote for the Oxfordshire magazine OX on the new Gozo scooter and my ability – or lack of it – on two wheels, complete with imagery of my prowess.
When I first met The Significant Other, he had an excessively-powerful motorbike in the garage, one in a long line of hot fast red numbers, and matching metalwork in his leg. Within a month, on the very day he was supposed to be meeting my parents in his best suit and most respectable attitude, I had a roadside call from the ambulance summoning me to A&E: the motorbike was no more somewhere on a dual carriageway out west. And that, I thought, was that. We agreed life was too precious to be squandered squashed on tarmac and settled happily into eight wheels, four apiece.
But just recently we have welcomed a new addition to the family – no, not of the human kind before you start sending flowers and rattles. Although it’s two wheeled, it isn’t a sportbike optimised for acceleration and speed for which you must be adorned head…
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A couple of months ago I wrote about the excitement of seeing a chameleon in the wild in Gozo, and back in Oxfordshire I made a mosaic to remind us of the moment we saw him, which in turn inspired this month’s Where The Grass is Greener column in the OX magazine. I have also, in the meantime, got a better photo of a Mediterranean chameleon than the roadside skeleton I used when I last wrote about these, courtesy of my Dad who spotted this little fellow last week by the path on the Sanap cliffs. He describes how he turned from a vivid green into a sandy brown and then darkened as the shadows fell upon him. The original post is here.
Every so often, everyone should take the time to reassess one’s place in life and consider where one would like to go next, other than the chocolate stash on the top shelf. I have long-harboured an ambition to be a Russian Ice Star, dancing in sequins and skates with the gymnastic flair of autocratic regimes in the Eastern blok, but have been held back by both the geography of my birth and, if I am honest, a lack of physical athleticism on sharpened metal.
But just recently this idea has been smashed like the china at a Greek celebration. Who says a leopard never changes his spots? A chameleon might beg to differ, and I am embracing an alternative vision for the future. When I grow up I would like to be Gaudi, mosaicking colourful wonders in Mediterranean sunshine.
Earlier this year whilst in Malta I stumbled camera-less across a…
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