clinging to the wreckage

  The flight to San Diego was delayed, but only after we were in the plane. At first, there’d been a terminal change that I almost failed to notice, but I made it easily to the correct gate just as boarding was beginning. Upon boarding, I couldn’t get the arm to retreat into my bag, so I couldn’t get it into the overhead locker the way it was supposed to go. After much fuss and, finally, a guy somehow hitting it back in, we were told there was a delay due to a maintenance issue. After 45 minutes, the issue was resolved and the very same second of the announcement we had a lightning strike. The captain informed us that each lighting strike triggers a fifteen-minute wait period to ensure the sky is clear. In total, we sat on the runway for just over two and a half  hours before finally taking off. The morning had been one of joy, for I was on vacation and my ear infection had almost entirely disappeared. I could hear for the first time in seven days. I made breakfast and then a sandwich

  Yesterday I visited the Punk Rock Museum in Las Vegas for the second time. The first time I went there was May 2023 and it was during the Punk Rock Bowling weekend, so the place was absolutely crowded beyond comprehension. I was desperate to go back during a ‘quiet time’ to be able to explore in peace. I had been in San Diego for the weekend, so the opportunity to visit on the way home presented itself.                   The Punk Rock Museum is a haven for all things and people punk. From the stark artwork of the museum, a freshly painted black building with the name emblazoned in ‘bad religion font’ across the front, punctuated with the iconic west coast palm trees, to the very final moment before departure – usually the Triple Down bar inside the museum – the place is a testament to all things great about punk rock.                   The first photo in the museum is one of Tony Sly, a fitting tribute to a modern punk rock hero whose lyrics and songs carried so many of us through so

A day off. It promises time in bed with books and coffee. Waking up, however, there is no power and it is not possible to make coffee. First world problems. I pack my computer, a book, and some chargers into my backpack and set off on a walk to find coffee and Wi-Fi. I take a walk past my office, hopeful that Candy has her café open so that I can have breakfast there and work from a friendly environment. Candy is a Korean lady who, with her husband, runs the small cafeteria in the office building where I work. I could have gone into the office itself, but the only food there on a holiday comes in the form of vending machine snacks… not really ideal for breakfast. I walked on, quite some distance, and opted for the only thing open at that time on a public holiday… McDonalds. I knew they had Wi-Fi and coffee, so that was where I went. I ordered a muffin, coffee, and orange juice, opened my MacBook and connected so that I could answer some critical work messages and mails. It was a beauti

It has always troubled me how they just simply disappear. People. And not just the ones that die. It could be a breakup… and they simply fade into oblivion, without trace, like a death. Also, when one has lived in different countries and different cities within those countries, people who are once a part of daily life are eventually gone. There are so many goodbyes and promises to remain in touch, but people get married, they have children, or they simply meet other people and disappear. It seems that the ones who remain in touch are lost to death. The others simply disappear of their own free will. I remember once reading something that a professor had said in an interview… ‘people will curse me for this, but a breakup is not dissimilar to death.’ It feels that way but, deep down, we know one is final and the other always leaves an option… hope or hate… something. I know I will never share another message or conversation with my mother, something I still struggle to accept, and it is

One moment you are living in Madrid, writing your Master’s Thesis, lead vocalist for a punk rock band, highly responsible IT manager at a large tech company, hard partying socialite, meeting new and exciting people every day, and the next moment you are going to lie on your bed with a book at 7:30pm on a Friday night. It’s not always about becoming old and boring, it is also about the things that you love to do. These things change over time. I miss the creative aspect of being in a band, but I don’t miss the hard work of rehearsals, concerts, tours, etc. We had to carry all of our equipment around, we had to rehearse in dingy, tiny rooms, and my vocal cords were often strained to the extreme. In terms of the social side, aside from the band, we’d formed a community that gathered every Thursday night and also hosted huge parties every couple of months. Thursday nights themselves were so extreme that Friday at work was a complete write off. And this meant that Monday to Thursday was eve

  The winter wind howls outside. It explores the windows, looking for gaps and fragilities. The temperature drops and I find myself thinking of the stray cat who has become my friend. Where does he hide? Why will he not come inside? What has he been through? We spend a few moments together each day and I feed him. Then it is time for some human interaction… but, you see, most of them are not listening. Most of them don’t care at all. It’s seven weeks since my mother passed away, I miss her each and every day. For others, it seems to be forgotten history. And, I suppose, it is not reasonable for me to expect more than that. I remember the day that my grandmother, my mother’s mother, died. We made it just in time to her bedside. We’d driven from the south of England, where I lived, up to the north, to the town I was born in (the town all of my family had been born in). I walked into the ward first and saw a lady lying in a bed with nurses nearby. I asked the nurses where Winnie was and o

  When my family emigrated from England to South Africa, I struggled for a while with the climate… and the cultural change. Everything was dry and hot… and we moved in January, it had been snowing and freezing in Greater Manchester… in South Africa it was dusty, dry, and sickeningly hot. For the first few years, the days I loved the most were the rainy days. Another thing that struck me as different was the overwhelming presence of religion and religious belief within the majority of people. Religion was used like an iron fist at school to keep students in line through fear of eternal damnation in the fiery depths of hell. It was natural for me to rebel against anything that was being forced upon me… especially if it was in the form of a threat. There was nothing I despised more than the words ‘you are going to be in so much trouble if you do that.’ I remember fellow students revelling in the idea that you would be punished for forgetting to bring a book or a form or something insignif