I remember the first time I got off the plane at Entebbe. It was October, the start of the rainy season, and the heat of the sun was mingling with a recent rainfall. The smell was intoxicating, like a half-cooked clay pot mixed with the rising scent of begonia, the murrim dust burnt orange underfoot. 
This blast of heat and smell and dust blew in front of me; the noise, aroma and sensation, an enticing beckoning into a love affair that has never left.
I have waited nearly 12 years to share this with my child. Wanting him to be old enough, aware enough, to build his own relationship with this special place. We chose South Africa, “Africa light” as I’m apt to describe it, for a slew of reasons, all of which were rational and pragmatic. We decided to visit in Winter, better to see the wildlife on safari, less mosquito’s, less tourists. We chose a mix of African bush and city to provide contrast and maintain interest, carefully selecting the places to stay.
And the first few days were magical – all I could have wished for. I watched his eyes widen 
at the sight of elephants so close you could smell their breath, at lions lying feet away replete from a kill, at rhinos locking horns in violent play-fight, at hungry hyena and wild dog scrapping, at giraffes fixing him with their beautiful hooded eyes before sauntering away.
I saw him listen to every word of Stu the safari guide and George our spotter. He playfully gave himself into the music and culture delighting the staff at Etali Lodge with his desire to learn their songs and participate in their sounds. He jumped in deep; watching lizard, zebra, bush buck and warthog from the depths of our plunge-pool and singing loudly and with great abandon in the outdoor shower. This is a happy child, falling in love with my Africa.
And then we arrive in Cape Town and it changes. The city itself is beyond recollection and I keenly feel what Elizabeth Marx terms “reverse culture shock“. It is at once familiar yet strangely alien. I search for Africa and see the successful commercialisation of an international city. Small family owned restaurants are now large, bland, international affairs.
In revolt we purchase a MyCiti card and take to travelling in and around the city on local buses, desperate to retain a link to the culture that made this place so unique. We encounter slivers of this, just enough to keep searching, but it is becoming more futile by the hour. To make it worse, Roscoe keeps talking of Madikwe and us returning there and it is obvious that the Mother city has only attracted his consumerism and not his heart.
So we headed off to the Cape Winelands, basing ourselves in Franschhoek the Huguenot town renowned for its gastronomic delights, engulfed by a plethora of high-quality vineyards and nestled in the spectacular Franschhoek valley. 
This is the home of La Petite Ferme, the award-winning, family run vineyard where Craig and I used to stay in our young and carefree days. Only this is currently closed, having been sold, and is now undergoing renovations, no doubt to make it bigger, better and more commercially lucrative than before. Everywhere we go, we see the march of touristic progress from the penguins sidewalk at Simons Town to the rise of new hotels in the middle of Hermanus. The charm and culture appears to be ebbing away and it bruises my soul. Of course I have no right to wish stagnation on a country that so desperately needs the tourist dollar, no right to expect the culture to be wrapped in cotton wool and preserved for my child to experience. I would not want this place, this continent. to do anything but rise and prosper and flourish. 
But to see it through my child’s eyes – we could be anywhere in Europe, America, Canada, Australia – this is not Africa, this homogeneity choking a culture so colourful and vibrant.
And yet, we take a thread of hope and a promise of tomorrow, back with us. For Franschhoek also hosts a number of small boutique art galleries. And on day one of our visit we fall in love with a painting by a local artist called Katherine Wood. It’s an exorbitant cost but it beckons us back each day to gaze at its sweeping skyline and discuss how it makes us feel, think, breathe. We are in the in-between land of knowing but not knowing, reminded that life is fleeting and ephemeral. This art, it calls to us and commonsense and pragmatism fade and disappear in its incessant need to be heard.
We buy hope and dreams, future not past. And the crate arrives three weeks later, massive in size, it alone making a statement that refuses to be ignored.
We will gaze at this painting, and its companion piece, to the end of our days. I too have succumbed to commercialism and magic. Yes, Africa remains within me, a concept, a promise, a never-ending love affair.
I’m the Mother always up for the 100metre dash at school sports days, who swims and skis, dances and laughs. I’m assertive. Goal orientated. Caring and supportive. I am lots of things. I am Not sick.
The siege of Aleppo means these Mothers don’t know from day to day, hours to hour, if their children will survive. Will they die from a shell strike from somewhere and someone unknown, or from a sniper’s bullet from a fighter hiding out in this atrocity of a city? Perhaps they will go more slowly, in a hospital which has no drugs or supplies to stop their piercing pain, their blood from flowing, their screams of agony. Or maybe death will come from malnutrition as no food has been allowed to get into the city for months and months. These Mothers, like all Mothers the world over, fret about the basics. “Is my child safe and secure?” “Does my child have food and water to survive?” “Can I provide for my child?” As any psychologist will tell you, without these basics, what we know, or think we know, counts for nothing. We are reduced to our elemental selves. Humanity and human are two different concepts when our backs are so far to the wall we are leaving our shadows imprinted in the brickwork.
a rapid turnaround to visit 
of sharing sunsets and gin, of yelling at the moon
Mary Queen of Scots as the dog lies whimpering at our feet. As the new Head of History, Auntie Jan’s classroom comes with its own balcony and turret and is complete with spectacular views over the sands of St Andrews. I imagine Roscoe learning there, history wound in history as the chalk marks and scratches on the turret walls attest. 
It’s not the place for a child of faint heart but a warrior child will progress beyond the stone grey walls and into the world to make their mark. It’s a place of boy-men and female heroines. A place which has all the potential to shape my child into the man he will become. A place over 450 miles away…
exquisite Rubens of Marchesa Maria Serra Pallavincino. I can almost touch the silk of her dress brought to life by the skill of his brush. So much to see and hear, so much to take in and understand, by the time we reached the Egyptian room I am done in and need the respite of the garden 
to allow my mind to slowly absorb the visual feast of art.
On Sunday we reunite with the boy and to celebrate drive from Southampton to Portsmouth to have lunch by the water and watch the boats. But all this driving allows the mind to roam free and the stress bubbles underneath, catching us all by surprise as we yell about where to park. We are thinking about tomorrow while trying to stay in the day.
I can see the shore but have no clue how to get there and even if I do will a ‘Skorrie’ come to peck me to pieces, or a large boot squash me into a blubbery wet mess? Is it safer in the wild sea than on the sea shore? I just need to wait and see where the elements decide to take me.
I talk to Mr Moon and Es Vedra in the wee small hours of the morning. Connecting to their power, channelling strength and resolve.
It’s fair to say that we are facing a decade of unprecedented change. None of us have a crystal ball and goodness knows what may or may not happen.
I am neither shocked nor surprised at this proliferation of words.
A central tenant of the Third Way and New Labour’s manifesto in 97 was the promise of 
Thus began an uneasy alliance which seemed to herald a new era of politics for the country, a potential way forward, requiring collaboration and co-creation. But the seeds of ill ease within the Conservative Party were growing, more liberal policy adoption angered the right of the Party, who began more and more to align themselves with the venom of UKIP. David Cameron, in order to see off UKIP in the 2015 general election, offered a simple EU referendum as part of his election manifesto. Once elected he had to come good on this promise. But his timing of this EU referendum was awful, too early in the parliamentary term and too close to the impacts of years of austerity.
What’s been done cannot be undone – much as though we may wish it to be so. All of the reports and media articles of people saying I didn’t realise what it would mean, do not change the outcome. Change is upon us. Our choice is, now what do we do to make this work?
I have never claimed to understand this. I have been irritated beyond belief that this is how he is built.
The course organiser had forgotten it was scheduled for the first days of Ramadan. We were in +35 degree heat, attendees had caffeine withdrawal symptoms, no one could sip water never mind eat, many asked for permission to lie on the floor and I was supposed to educate on a Western concept. To better understand my attendee’s experiences and culture, beliefs and rituals, I decided to fast with them and its one of my everlasting memories, seeing the vibrant aliveness of these kind and generous people as we all celebrated and enjoyed Iftar together in the evening coolness. During those few days time took on a new meaning – it became the essence of substance, of endurance, of belief. There was no clock involved, just the rising and setting of the sun. During this week, there were many life lessons; learning to adapt myself, my thinking and the course content while still achieving a good outcome. And this was achieved by us working together, tailoring and adapting time management concepts for the Sudanese. The outcome became, practical and realistic rather than a great theory in a Western management handbook.
Conversely, polychronic or cyclical cultures like to do multiple things at the same time. They tend to view people and relationships as more important than tasks and time. If you are from this kind of culture, you will aim to build trust and lifelong relationships. Being on time will depend on the relationship, or status, rather than any stated task and objectives. My African friends and colleagues, Latin Americans, Southern Europeans all tend to be from polychronic cultures.
To be fair, he was senior in 
It’s Tuesday, the week is still young and already it’s emerging as one of these times where change seems to happen almost every minute.
For the first time, Roscoe pays attention to his destination and is full of questions – is it still at war? Is it safe? What is he doing there? Trying to have an informed discussion at breakfast is challenging, I’m not a ‘morning person’ and I don’t have satisfactory answers to any of his 
At dinner with some girlfriends it’s a lively topic of discussion. We agree that the politics of fear from both sides; dire economic consequences/too much immigration, don’t work for us. I share my view that it is fundamentally a vote about belief and values. The best way for me to decide is by being guided by my beliefs; on what I hold to be true formed by my history and experiences and my values and hopes for myself and future generations. To make a decision based on any of the arguments being postulated in the news items, by people who have obvious personal motivations, is potentially foolish, particularly when some of what is being said has so many holes we could evoke the curds of the Swiss! 
Those of us who have never experienced, or only been lightly touched, by the impact of war, or rationing, have less fear of losing our national identity . What does being British mean these days? Are we not now the sum of our parts rather than the whole? And true, when I asked around the table, “what nationality are you?” the answer is “I’m English”, or “I’m Irish” or in my case, “I’m Scots”. To the question “where do you belong?” there was a more interesting response “Europe, but not continental Europe”. Are we proud to be British anymore? Or are we so impassioned by our smaller parts of the United Kingdom? Perhaps we would rather associate ourselves with the much larger EU? Maybe Gordon Brown was onto something when he spoke in 2007 about our national identity. The 
through the door barrier. To wear it requires a mindset of curiousity “how can I make this better today?” I am aware that my enthusiasm is not for all. In some ways I am lucky to have missed the steady slow demise of these past few months; lucky to have learned new coping techniques for dealing with change outside of my control; lucky to know what’s important, what’s transient and what’s downright trivial in comparison.
Whether its company takeovers, redundancies, ending relationships, reviewing education options or even the current interminable Brexit/Brexin debate in the UK, it all creates inevitable change. Our choice is how we choose to face this, how we move on, recognising that there are days when this is easier than others. Let’s face it, even the more perfect souls have down days too.
I avoid the phone. I don’t invite myself round for coffee or invite friends over for wine or gin and chat. I’m conscious of people having to ask me to repeat what I’ve said. The word ‘pardon’ or phrases like “excuse me”, “say again” or “I didn’t quite catch that” have taken on ridiculous proportions in my head. For someone who has much to say, it’s really frustrating that I can’t speak too long without jaw pain, tiredness and the inevitable slurring. On days where I’m being kind to myself and more mindful, I remember that I’m learning to improve my listening, to use my NLP to look at the structure of the conversation, not the content. But there are days where I beat myself hard, where I push to enunciate more, to exercise more, to say more, socialise more, be more ‘normal’. And the price is a lack of energy, increased levels of pain, a heightened sense of self-consciousness and greater irritability and tiredness.
My desire to take action, to get over this, to move on, burns fierce-bright. My good days tease my down days with possibilities that achingly remain just out of reach. I know I will get there, I just don’t know when.