Acronyms are wonderful things. They can make the clumsy and obvious sound efficient and businesslike; and they can make everyday suffering sound neat and manageable. I am taking an MHD (a Mental Health Day). It feels less shameful than explaining that I’ve burned out, had a meltdown, stopped functioning, or any of the other dramatic, messy-sounding metaphors for why I can not be a productive member of society today.

This has been looming for a while and I’ve just been ignoring it, because fuck being ill. It started with sleepless nights, waking up at random hours of the morning with cold dread tying my insides in a knot. I started scrolling through social media compulsively, absorbing all the negative emotions expressed in it until it felt like I was consuming poison with my eyeballs. After a self-imposed sanity break from that, my mind kept running on overdrive trying to solve the awful problem of my life. Every once in a while I would offer it a crochet pattern as a distraction, which gave me a little bit of respite. But by then the physical symptoms had already taken hold: slow speech and difficulty talking, with sentences that seem to take forever to lead nowhere; nausea and lack of appetite (Christmas fun!); prickly skin, oversensitivity to noise and light; and that weird feeling that I’m being carried along by a flock of evil butterflies living somewhere underneath my sternum…

I crashed to a halt on Christmas Eve and spent most of the day sitting on the floor crying (something I often joke I ought to add to my CV: ‘in my free time…’) and, well, it got worse. After a bit of a break over Christmas, I managed to drag myself to work yesterday, but my concentration was shot. I haunted the office like a nauseous ghost, trying to remember all the things I had to do, and how to do them, and failing, mostly.

I needed a day to sleep, and to register with a GP so that I could finally talk to someone about this, and to renew my travelcard which I would have done yesterday if I had any kind of grip on reality, and just to figure out how I really am and how best I can manage. The fact I feel wracked with guilt about taking a day out for this probably shows I really need it, but doesn’t make it any easier. I might indulge in a bit of sitting on the floor and crying, for tradition’s sake.

At the moment, there’s a lurking cloud of bad feelings waiting to attach themselves to any thoughts that might feed them. Every once in a while, my brain helpfully offers up a memory for the guilt to feed on, or a little bit of logic which demonstrates how the world would be a better place if I weren’t in it (luckily Black Dog is on hand with a counter-argument, because who would he be snuggling if I were gone?).

My random apology of the day is to Midge Ure, for drunkenly heckling him in Aberdeen. He introduced Vienna and I said ‘YESSSSSSSS!’ and then explained – a bit too loudly – ‘IT’S THE ONLY ONE I KNOW’. I know it was a bit too loud because he sighed and said ‘yeah, thanks for that’ before beginning. Sorry, Midge. I really like Fade To Grey as well.

Be excellent to each other, everybody.




2017: a reading list

Somehow, despite a year spent working in a library with “Europe’s largest catalogued collection of SF material,” I’ve never quite got round to reading any. This is in spite of marrying a man who was reading Cryptonomicon when we met and has spent the intervening years patiently introducing me to classic TV Sci-Fi, and a friendship group whose appreciation of the genre ranges from keen readership to active fandom. My first (and, to date, only) real foray into the realm of speculative fiction came with a copy of The Mammoth Book of SF Stories By Women, which I picked up on a whim in the excellent News From Nowhere bookshop just over 18 months ago. Some of the stories in it blew my mind – fantastic explorations of colonialism and culture, intelligence, love and companionship, ethics and memory – and it left me hungry for more. So as 2016 limps towards its long-awaited close and I begin to think more hopefully of 2017, the time seems right to draw up a reading list.

When I put out a call on social media asking for suggestions, the response was overwhelming – over 50 comments, most of them suggesting multiple books and authors. From these suggestions, I have cherry-picked some favourites to track down after Christmas and devour on the long, dark train journeys into and out of Manchester…

Aliette de Bodard – House of Shattered Wings
Her short story, Immersion, was one of my favourites from the Mammoth anthology – a powerful tale about translation, identity, and the use and limitations of technology – so House of Shattered Wings was already on my radar. Though I was initially skeptical of “the hoary premise of fallen angels and ancient curses,” as one review puts it, the book received some great write-ups which prompted me to be more open-minded. I would love to get hold of On A Red Station, Drifting, too – a story which in its premise feels a lot closer to the world of Immersion.

Ursula K. Le Guin – The Left Hand of Darkness, The Dispossessed
After trying and failing to read them in childhood, I finally read Le Guin’s Earthsea stories this year and loved them. Her masterful short story Mountain Ways, set on the planet O, was another highlight of the Mammoth anthology, so it was inevitable that some of her works would end up on this list. The Left Hand of Darkness and The Dispossessed are two that kept cropping up in recommendations, but I would be open to reading anything I come across by her.
N.B. dear Ursula, please don’t die in 2016.

Jo Walton – Among Others, The Just City
Well, for a start, she’s Welsh – and the idea of a “reverse-Harry Potter” tale is irresistible (boss witch!) – but what appeals to me most about Among Others is the idea of “a love letter to SF fandom”. It seems like the perfect ‘gateway’ book, introducing the great SF classics through the eyes of a strange Welsh girl who grows up feeling out of place (ahem). And The Just City, recommended by my Ancient History-professing and SF-reading  stepfather, is a must for this pub philosopher and Master of Myth.

C.J. Cherryh – The Pride of Chanur
As if turning the ‘human stranded among aliens’ trope on its head by writing from the alien point of view wasn’t interesting enough, Cherryh’s aliens are feline.  And they get Jo Walton speaking in Hani pidgin (“What want, stupid human?”). Not only am I completely in love with this idea, I also suspect I might gain some interesting new insights into the lives of my friends (and their feline overlords) by reading.

Naomi Novik – Uprooted
The review describes this novel as “part of the modern fairy-tale retelling tradition, because it is very much concerned with which stories get told, why and how they are told, and what truths might underlie them.” This is exactly the reason for my love of folklore and fairy tales, and I am fascinated to find out how Novik uses them, in a novel which many of my friends have already enjoyed.

Ann Leckie – Ancillary Justice
At long last, we come to a novel set in space – in fact, a novel narrated by a space ship. The idea of sentient spaceships worked brilliantly in Boojum, one of my favourite stories from the Mammoth anthology, so I am already inclined to like it. Add to that an exploration of the concept of personhood, and language which forces us to confront our gender assumptions and constructions, and this sounds like a very exciting book indeed.

Ted Chiang – Stories From Your Life
And finally, a token male author, for the sake diversity. Actually, I have been fully intended to track down Stories From Your Life since reading the reviews of Arrival (did I mention that language and translation theory fascinate me?) So, in a way, Ted Chiang was always already on my reading list.

It is wonderful to think that this list is just a taste – barely a few morsels of the smorgasbord of suggestions offered up by friends and acquaintances. I am also keen to get hold of some Philip K Dick (“Dick, Dick and more Dick” as one friend suggested, possibly more excitingly than he intended), Asimov, Gibson, Zelanzy, Bester and Vandermeer. But these books feel like a good place to start. One of the things that put me off from reading SF for so long was the idea that there is a ‘right’ way to do it, a canon of things that must be read. The Mammoth anthology allowed me to follow my curiosity and get inspired by different approaches, which was exactly my approach in compiling this list. It also reminded me (because I sometimes need reminding) that reading should be fun, and this list looks like a lot of fun. To everyone who contributed suggestions: thank you!

WIP Wednesday: butterflies and flowers

Perhaps that should be WTHP – works that have progressed. I’ve been busy 🙂

Since my last craft-related post, I’ve been settling into our new home in the Pennines, in a town which is a good long train ride from my work. Commuting can be crushingly miserable, especially on Northern’s old buses-on-rails, so I’ve taken pains to make the most of the experience. Train 1 of 2 is for breakfast: a flask of something hot, and a pot of overnight oats. Then, a brisk walk across Manchester to Piccadilly while the sun rises (and sometimes you can even see it!), to train 2 of 2. This is where the crochet happens.

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a year of writing honestly

I hate writing.

There, I said it. For something I have done compulsively almost all my life, nothing causes me quite so much anguish. It’s only in the last few months I’ve started asking: why? Why do I do it? And why does it bother me so much?

Writing is another way of thinking. For me, it can often be the clearest way of thinking, a way of working towards ideas or insights I could never reach without it. The pile of scrappy notebooks filled with scribbled thoughts gets bigger every year, and I find it hard to shake off the idea that I should DO something with it all – be more organised, write more neatly, have better ideas… “This time,” I tell myself, stroking the uncreased cover of my new moleskine, “I’ll write something worthy of this lovely object.” And then I sit feeling miserable and paralysed, unable to think of anything worthy, depriving myself of the obvious route to feeling better.

Writing here is doubly difficult, because anyone can read it. I started this blog as a way of keeping track of ideas, inspirations and projects from different parts of my life, as my unruly interests kept spilling over the boundaries of more defined blogs ( and  But it’s hard not to be conscious of potential readers. I spend so much time hiding different aspects of myself. I’m a pagan druid, a folklore enthusiast, an archivist, a bit of a muso, a depressive, a budding stitcher, a Welsh speaker, an amateurish linguist, a rambler… Without knowing who might be out there reading, how should I know which bits of me to hide?

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. I’m thinking it too.

For 2017, I’ve set myself the challenge to be honest. The plan for this blog is to write about things which genuinely interest me, for their own sake, without worrying what people think (ha!). This is likely to include crochet, folklore, our new hometown, politics, songs, my newfound interest in SF and speculative fiction, poetry, random observations, Eurovision, the industrial revolution, and anything else for which I develop a sudden enthusiasm in the next 12 months. If you’re reading this, hello! And thank you. If you’re not reading this, good, it’s a strictly non-compulsory activity. But writing it is turning out to be a very useful thing.


Last weekend I found a cardboard ampersand, fell in love with it and carried it home. Blame it on the pre-wedding whirlwind. In the middle of all the things we were supposed to buy or borrow (table decorations, PA systems, flowers…) the ampersand was my ridiculous £2 cardboard reclamation of the fun of getting married.

We’re only three days away now. On some level, I have always pictured myself alone, and now that’s changing. I am going to live my life on one side of an ampersand. It feels terrifying and comforting all at once, like cresting the top of a rollercoaster and looking down… to see a whole different lifetime spread out below, one I’m only just beginning to imagine.

I think we’re going to make it.