The Blend is an Art: Chivas Regal UK

Scotch has never really been my cup of tea. It doesn’t exactly come naturally, being Irish. When I do pick up a bottle of whiskey, which generally only happens when the weather turns and there’s a threat of flu on the horizon, it’s always Jameson. And even then, it’s hot, with ginger or not at all.

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October Reads

What a month. National Poetry Day. Bookshop Day. October is clearly a month dedicated to bookworms which is perhaps how I managed to devote so much time to reading when I appeared to have so little time on my hands.

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September Reads

September was an odd, emotional month with a family funeral, a spectacular wedding and some long overdue quality time with friends and family. As for reading, a little geography, a little history, a little close to home.

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A little bit about me…

Because I’m trying to get back into the habit of tramping the keyboards, and because I’ve spent a luxurious few hours this afternoon mulling over The Guardian’s Weekend section and fallen even more in love with Emilia Fox in her Q&A, I’ve decided to have a go myself. A quick, snappy writing prompt and a little how do you do to get us back in acquaintance.

A side note – this was much harder and took a lot longer than I’d imagined it would.

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August Reads

I have fallen behind on writing up my monthly reads what with all the good Summer weather, the weddings and general life getting in the way, so I’m going to dissect August’s Reads with maximum efficiency.

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An ode to Booky Towers

It is a sunny, blue sky Saturday morning and the living room window is open out so wide that from where I sit on our giant sofa, I have a bird’s eye view of passers-by three floors below, reflected on glass which is mottled now after weeks without a decent rain shower to clean it. It feels like the first Saturday morning in forever that I have had the time and luxury of sitting down with a pot of tea and an avocado something, Saturday Morning Kitchen in the background.

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Five Things: How to feel more grown up

Here I am on the brink of thirty and still, at least every few months, I have one of those weeks (or two) where I simply cannot adult. I am struck with a sudden incapacity to prepare a meal, put away the washing or water the plants and the feeling of failure that follows lulls me into a rut.

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