In 2025, seven writers* took turns to set a prompt—a gift—handed to each of us to pick up and follow wherever it led. The project gathered under the banner 'Lay it on the Line' (link below).
Before I publish my contribution to our 2026 circular letter—an intimate, unfolding dialogue exploring our relationship with the natural world, each month bringing a new voice, a new perspective, building on what came before—I wanted to collate my 2025 words in one place.
This is an anthology of sorts.
These pieces are personal: loved ones, loss, rites and rituals, the things we inherit and the things we leave behind. I offer them here in the order they were written.
11 June 2025: Home
Hello dreamy wisteria!
Here you are: curling, curving, open-armed. Your delicate lantern flowers were cloaked inside seductive grey racemes when I left to go away for ten days. And now I return to see your two-tone lilac-ness dripping from twisting stems, framing the glazed front door that, from an angle, doubles your impact.
Wisteria floribunda: resolute, gentle, determined to weave your way up gradually, clockwise, as though you keep time for me, turning, turning, like the hands of a dial. You grow from between the stones of the courtyard where you were planted some eleven years ago. Each season you’ve thrown pieces of yourself out into the morning, searching for a crevice, a clinging point, a tiny gap into which you could lay down and rest for a moment before taking hold—in a gutter, a window frame, a ledge. You’ve succeeded in finding crannies for your tendrils. But only when I let you. Only when I held back my pruning shears. And when I thwarted you, I was forgiven in an instant. You sought other routes, sideways. Your lithe silver-grey stems twist loosely, sometimes tightly, as you wend across the wall over stones warmed by the sun. And together we have constructed an arch over the doorway, a framework for your handsomeness.
Here I am: standing before you in early May with my suitcase paused and my front door key ready, but I stay a while to let your satisfying sweet scent flow over me before I cross the threshold. A light breeze picks you up and swirls your fresh fragrance into the house as I enter, and I take a breath.
9 July 2025: Walking
1. I open the door and cross the threshold. The transition, from indoor cocoon to wide open space, is marked by a displacement of oxygen and nitrogen equivalent to sixty-five kilograms in weight. I mentally check my joints for pain and ease of movement.
2. Walking is freedom.
3. My body drifts through and within the landscape, as if in two states of being; the first, my physical presence, feels the touch and sound of my feet on the path; the second, my thoughts, float like ribbons in the wind.
4. Walking prompts reverie.
5. I pass a bench. It wears a plaque, a brass memorial of remembrance. I murmur its words—dearly loved, courageous battle, sadly missed. I gather its grief and sorrow; cup it, bear it, walk with it awhile. Then I flex each hand, stretch out the fingers and shake the words free.
6. I consciously let my shoulders relax from their hunched keyboard attitude.
7. My body is an engine.
8. My pace, as unique as my DNA, gradually accelerates as my limbs loosen and the venous oil of my blood becomes more viscous.
9. Physical exercise is therapy.
10. Every walk is a performance, an unrepeatable original event. Like a doodle, you cannot go over it twice. You can only echo the route.
11. I leave traces of my being on the ground and in the air. I speak softly to the trees and creatures nearby. There’s no-one else in sight; I take possession of the path. I enjoy the serenity; the landscape becomes mine.
12. What does it mean to own a landscape?
13. I pause to the point of stillness. I sit on a rock, a patch of grass. It is an act of occupation. I own this space, albeit temporarily.
14. I declare my presence.
15. But, I am not alone. Other beings are here, huddling close, sharing this place—my patch of ground. They’re inside my body, above, and below me, living in their own worlds, seeing through different eyes, detecting scents and odours beyond my perception, hearing sounds that are lost to me. Keeping me safe.
6 August 2025: Dad
Some weeks after my father died my brother and I had to clear his flat. We deliberated on what we found in every drawer and cupboard—each represented a multitude of decisions. Keep, donate, auction, tip.
We composed lists.
I came across a trio of lavender-infused egg-shaped soaps nestled in a box—a gift I presumed, not for my father but for mother who had died a decade earlier. Should I preserve them as my father had done? What would mum have wanted? I took them home and embarked on a ritualised performance of hand-washing. I gained temporary solace from the smooth ovoid shapes, from the froth and suds they produced as I massaged my hands in their lather. Lavender was her favourite; she would slowly inhale the scent as though it had a nicotine kick, and looking me in the eye she would smile and exhale.
We sorted through the richer pickings and began a slow bagging up of the residual flotsam, all that was left of a working-class life racked by illness. Dad’s Welsh Guards’ blazer hung stiffly behind mirrored wardrobe doors, a smart fit, worn to many funerals; in this item of clothing his presence was palpable, we had to keep it. But we let the six ribbon plates that lined the mantelpiece go. And the onyx-topped coffee table with its bruising brass legs. And the dozens of suitcases stacked and filled with the canvases he’d painted during an industrious retirement.
The contents of a house, a cupboard, a drawer, all serve as mirrors to a life once lived, a biography of sorts. Every object conveyed a treasured mnemonic potency, having the capacity to remind me of past events and feelings—memories that I knew would adjust and shift over time. In a larder of hoarded groceries, I found several hundred tea bags and realised that, as I worked through this cache, I would be measuring the progression of my grief in cups of tea.
17 September 2025: Storytime
“Ay, ay, children. I saw it happen, and can tell you all about it.
“’Twas a wild day with a wind off the sea, and the waves breaking over the cliff.
“About one o’clock, I saw the little craft drifting in to shore down yonder…”
These are the opening words of ‘The Wreck’, which appears in Arm-chair Stories: A Picture-Book for Little Folk. In this tale of valour, an expanse of angry ocean provides the backdrop to a full-scale drama where all the crew, and even the Captain’s little dog, are saved.
On a cold winter’s day in London in 2017, I sat on a green leather desk chair in the British Library’s Reading Room with a lap-blanket over my knees. I marvelled at the story book. It had been preserved and its wonders kept for posterity. According to an oval-shaped date stamp in blue ink, which I found in the flyleaf, the book entered the archive on: 13-JA-1902.
The spine was creased, and when I lay the book open on the table the leaves relaxed easily. And then, I noticed the odour. Not the warm mustiness of old pages, but an acrid smell that tasted of tobacco. Nicotine had penetrated the paper, yellowed it; nicotine had travelled with the stories, through time, from one century into another.
I imagined a father sitting comfortable in an upright upholstered Edwardian armchair with two young children at his feet, perhaps on cushions, and a little one on his knee, and the book with its covers open set at their favourite page.
He, rosy-faced with whiskery eyebrows, relaxing with a pipe in his hand, speaking with the gravelly voice of a navy hero.
They, innocent and receptive, sucking in tobacco smoke with every exclamation, drawing it deeper into their lungs in anticipation of death by drowning, clamouring for the story to be read again.
“Once more, father, please. Once more!”
They wriggled on the floor, and he retraced his steps…
“Ay, ay, children. I saw it happen, and can tell you all about it…”
15 October 2025: Pond-ering
My family and I moved to the Scottish Borders six months ago. The garden had been left untended—let go—for what must be only a few years, but nature does its thing and we have a lot of work ahead of us to bring it around.
There are two large ponds. The first, near the house, was created with a black heavy duty liner. The second is further away at a lower level, dug out in a woodland clearing—we assume it will act as a natural sump.
We decided to allocate names to areas of the garden so we know which parts we’re talking about in conversation. My grand-daughter named the ponds. She has some imagination! Timoté is the upper pond and the lower pond is called Madame Julie, both have to be spoken with a French accent!
However, let’s not get carried away with any romantic notions. The ponds are choked with reeds and weeds and saplings of willow. There are:
No reflections of white clouds scudding across a blue sky or lively Common Pond Skaters (Gerris lacustris) to catch the eye.
No long-necked grey herons (Ardea cinerea) standing stock-still in their black and white evening garb, watching.
No flowers of the native white waterlily (Nymphaea alba) floating proud above the surface surrounded by outspread lily pads.
It’s been a dry summer and the lack of rain has resulted in low water levels hereabouts. Fighting my way through Timoté’s undergrowth I reach a curve of strategically placed rocks that mark the edge of the liner, and they’re covered with moss. And beyond, there’s a mass of black oozy gunk amongst dark green stems and grey-black roots.
This is our truth. It’s not pretty.
We’ll trim and tidy and thin out the vegetation. We’ll balance light with shade. And we’ll gently rake out some of the mud and let it lie a few days for bugs and beasties to find their way back into the water.
Before long we’ll see our ‘French’ ponds breathe and stir and nurture new life. And we’ll place a bench beside Timoté where we can watch and wait.
Watch and wait.
In time, this will be our new truth. And it will be pretty.
5 November 2025: Blondie
Mother told me everyone loved my blond curls. However, by the time I was seven my hair had transformed to a mousy brown and the compliments dried up.
In my early teens I used my ‘look’ to express my personality through my clothes and hairstyle. I experimented with semi-permanent and permanent hair dye, spanning the colour scale from dark auburn to ash blond. I added sparkle with highlights and lowlights and, with each application, a new ‘me’ emerged. Even though we had little spare cash in the household in those days, my mother smiled and peeled off the pound notes to finance my transition into womanhood. Because she agreed—mousey hair was boring.
The rodent was banished beneath chemicals for decades.
Then the wheel of life rotated and the hair on my head had ideas of its own. Brown mouse became grey rat.
No no!
Rat was a rat—he told the whole world I was no longer vivacious, sassy, desirable; he had to be controlled with dye, dye, and more dye.
Then one day I sat down and budgeted, tried to figure if I could stop working nine to five. The hairdressing spend astounded me. And I never actually enjoyed the salon experience.
As the next appointment loomed in my diary—a colour refresh—I began to dread the insane noise and inane chatter that would surround me in the chair. And my hair was protesting; it was thinning, falling out, and it began to clog my hair brush. I could see more of my scalp than I felt comfortable with. My follicles were screaming!
Few women in my social and business circle allowed their natural colour the light of day. What was my actual hair colour anyway? I didn’t know. For forty years I’d lived behind a facade of intense colourants.
I took a deep breath and challenged myself. ‘Let’s kick the habit,’ I said. And I did.
These days, I see my hairdresser for fifteen minutes once every few months. She snips the ends, admires my silver-grey foxy-blond hair, and says, ‘you’re so lucky, customers would pay good money for this colour.’
10 December 2025: Legacy
One of the first antique dealers in London, Edward Holmes Baldock, was born in the year 1777, a time when the American Revolution was underway and King George III was on the throne of Great Britain and Ireland. If we go back exactly two hundred years, Edward (or EHB as he came to be known) would have been 48 years old and in his prime.
Based in a workshop premises in a side street just off Oxford Street, (a bustling place even then), EHB was wheeling and dealing in furniture and ceramics and objects d’art. My interest in interiors motivated me to learn more about this man and I researched his life for my Masters Degree in Creative Writing. I came to the conclusion that he was both selfless and selfish and, pertinently, his altruism has lasted to this very day in the form of a charity that carries his name.
EHB died at the age of 68 in 1845. He set aside a £750 legacy in a codicil to his Last Will and Testament. The sum was for his local church to invest, with instructions for the interest to be given annually to six poor and needy people. The money is still being managed by the church and, on checking the Charity Commission’s records, £20 was raised and donated in 2024.
This legacy was a final act of generosity and care, yet it was also a means of ensuring eternal remembrance. Not totally selfless then. Also, EHB stipulated that the monies should be paid out on 14th May each year, his birthday!
The beneficiaries are chosen by the Trustees of the charitable fund and there are rules, such as they must not have received any other charity in that year, and they should not benefit from this charity two years running.
How do the recipients feel when they’re presented with this handout? I assume that the gift, or ‘bounty’ as it’s described in the codicil, is appreciated. Early on it was worth a tidy sum. Today, of course, £20 will buy very little.
When I spoke to Paul Ireland, the Honorary Treasurer of the Parochial Church Council, who was one of the trustees in 2020, I questioned whether the charity should continue in perpetuity. He said that they add the interest raised from the EHB fund together with other donations in order to make a decent sum. They then distribute it to three beneficiaries instead of six because it’s not that easy to identify recipients. And, interestingly, Paul knew nothing of EHB and was intrigued by my research.
For how many years, decades, even centuries, will this particular kindness to strangers continue?
The codicil stipulates it ‘shall yearly and every year forever’ be given.
Reflecting on the Work
This project had me thinking and writing about subjects I wouldn’t ordinarily consider writing about—some are of the moment, like the homecoming piece and the ponds, others draw on my research, like the story-time piece and EHB’s charity. Although disparate in content, I notice threads that link them together—moments in time, life’s thresholds, and the meaning of home.
Like EHB’s codicil, my writings for this 2025 collaborative project are a kind of supplement, an addendum, a record for the year, about things that matter to me.
Credits, Notes and Links
Above image of apple blossom is my own.
I’m grateful to be part of the ‘Lay it on the Line’ group. The writers are myself, Julia Adzuki, Stacy Boone, Donna Fisher, Bee Lilyjones, Amanda C. Sandos, and Julie Snider.
See our 2025 collected work here.
Thanks for reading Home and Place Writing. Thank you, as always, for joining me. Have a wonderful week!
I admire the diversity and specificity these lovely short pieces. My little online short story writing group works to member given prompts in a similar way. I had thought it might be constraining but the opposite has proved true.
A truly beautiful read! ❤️