Our mothers raise us with the best of what they know about being mums. Nobody is taught to be a mum. It’s a watch-and-learn as they grow up themselves. They pick up tools and tips and tricks and titbits from every conceivable corner as they mature in the ways of

Before I became a writer, I worked with a global professional services firm in the Assurance line of service. (Ha, I just lifted that straight from my defunct CV.) In one word, I was an auditor. And to some degree, an accountant. Auditor and accountant now a writer. Fancy that.

It’s 5.00a.m. The entr’acte between dusk and dawn. The blanket of the night is peeling away slowly to reveal the glorious shine of the morning Sun. In the biting cold outside, watchmen yawn and stretch before clocking out for their nightshift, they wipe the drool off the sides of their

I wonder what it was like for her, the day when my Mum stopped being a child. Was it one of those merciless events where you feel choiceless and coerced, as if your arm was twisted and the cruelty of reality whispered into your ear, ‘Succumb or die?’ Or was

Do you remember those old days when the family was in the living room catching some evening local TV and the kissing scenes came on? Do you remember how quickly your folks, your Mum especially, would barrel over to the TV to change the channel or, worse still, turn off

Elizabeth. A name with as much poise as it demands from when you first say it. Elizabeth. It’s regal. Authoritative. Discerning. A quiet sophistication. An ageless mystique. For a long time into my early twenties, I wondered whether I would measure up to the woman my Mum was. But I