“Eight more years” An ambiguous catch cry when people asked how old I was now. “22, so eight more years” I’d say, sometimes with a wry smile, other times in a deadpan delivery. I’d be greeted by a range of expressions — shock, laughter, confusion, concern. What does he mean…

Some unfinished thoughts from the past week as I recovered from my booster shot. I’m such a hypocrite. I was going to write a piece on the lack of greyness in the world now. How society craves black or white and derides all ambiguity. …

28 December. Day two of the calendar’s liminal week. Not quite this year, not quite the next. The house is quiet, the whole neighbourhood is too. One of the joys of being from a small town — the cacophony of the city is left behind at Christmas. …

It feels odd to say I am grieving an organisation and a job. But you were my through-line to my university life. You were my common thread holding me together for three years. And now it’s over. We talk about all the things I gave to you, but never about…