So, as promised: Cyprus continued the theme of connecting and regenerating. But also rejuvenating. And finding bits of me that had been on pause for quite a while.

I actually fucking managed to get out my sketchbook — go me! Not only did I sketch bits from my Cyprus trip, but I also had time to finish off my trips to Palawan and Koh Phangan. Time, perhaps, is just starting to become a small part of my life again. I’ve found some space to think about — and perhaps ruminate on — my potential adventures for the year ahead.

But, as I mentioned in my last post, it wouldn’t be a sabbatical beginning without me reevaluating my life choices so far. For fuck’s sake. In this case, it’s the choices I thought I’d made about my house.

Arriving in Cyprus, I felt like I was coming home — which was an unexpected feeling. Getting up in the morning, pulling on my shorts and vest top, wandering barefoot into the kitchen, grabbing a coffee (black — I’ve added that for all those who give me a hard time about adding milk! You know who you are.) and wandering outside by the pool to send some messages and sketch. What’s not to love about that?

Link to my art instagram page

We were staying at my in-laws, which is always like coming home. The boys stayed with Yiayia, and I stayed next door with my sister-in-law and her family. It was her house that always had the coffee brewing, which enabled my barefoot wandering and sketching to happen so easily. The mornings would start slowly but early, and we got into the habit of going out before it was too hot, walking between 5km and 10km before treating ourselves to a frappe sketo—a Greek (or in this case, Cypriot) iced coffee made plain with no sugar — and then swimming in the Mediterranean. Bliss!

We did deviate from the plan and walked up the hills and even in a park. It was on one of these walks that, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a shadow of a branch (or so I initially thought) blowing in the breeze. It was only when my brain realised there were no trees in that area to create such a shadow that, across our path, the long black fucker slid. A fucking black snake, just over a metre long. For those who know me well, this is where panic usually kicks in and the tears begin to flow. I can deal with most things, but snakes are not one of them. However, this time was different. I let out a tiny squeal (for me), Anna gallantly walked in front, and for the first time in my life, I was able to walk over the spot where the snake had once been.

I AM FUCKING BRAVE!

The boys and I did all our traditional Cyprus holiday things —throwing ourselves off the end of the pier into the sea for hours on end. Something their dad did as a teenager, and the boys and I joined him in doing since they were very little. We ate at Tea for Two — a tradition that started many years ago when meeting my mother-in-law and her friend for a Sunday breakfast and usually a massive ice cream sundae.

In the first couple of days, I met up with an ex-colleague and friend from Ras Al Khaimah. We nattered about life in general and the quandary left by life moving forward at a rapid pace — the fact that we are both still in our twenties (until you look in a mirror). But that’s not a bad thing. Mostly.

We talked about diving and travelling solo — an adventure I’ve just started. I talked about selling my house in Cyprus and then seeing what happens and where life takes me.

Well. That was before I ventured up to see my house.

Fucking hell. Why is it that just when you think you’ve made a decision, life comes along and challenges that?

I went to my house to look at what needs fixing and getting sorted for selling… but fucking hell. My wonderful tenant has made it — my house—her home. I’ve not seen it as a home since we bought it.

The plan, before widowhood, had been to sort it out, renovate, maybe even extend it to live in. “One day…”

The garden, however — we spent time developing that. Built a pool. Landscaped it. FUCK! Walking into it this summer and seeing our —now my — house as a home, with a beautifully matured garden, caused a mini silent crisis. My resolve to sell it dissolved, and once again the question of should I sell? came to the forefront of my mind.

I still don’t know what I’ll do. But what I have decided is: not to decide just yet.

Perhaps it’s time to take a different path. Look at how to overcome the fact that I’m British and that death and Brexit screwed up the original plan. There must be a way to sort this out. Perhaps investigating how will now become part of my sabbatical choices.

Who knows? Answers on a postcard, please!

After the intensity of that, I spent many hours discussing my ideas with the lovely Clare and Stephen, who live in a village away from my house and who kindly hosted me to stay for the weekend while I was there. Clare is an ex-colleague from Hong Kong who made the move to Cyprus about four years ago. Their home is a haven of tranquillity, and I was able to continue to wander barefoot in my shorts, have black coffee, and sketch before walking with Clare around their village, Drousia, which has been brightened up by her beautiful hand-painted buckets. The walks were followed by a second (not black) coffee at two very different cafes — both equally funky and both coffees equally good.

The highlight of my stay in Drousia, other than staying with and catching up with Clare and Stephen, and of course the Keo beer consumed alongside the kebabs eaten in the local tavern, was being taken to watch halloumi being hand-made and then to the Halloumi Festival in the evening. This included a man doing Greek dancing with sixteen glasses stacked on his head, topped off with a firework, followed by halving the number of glasses on his head and adding a barbecue!

And that, I think, is the perfect way to finish my trip to Cyprus —wondering about reevaluating, rejuvenating and growth. From snakes to halloumi. From crisis to festival. From uncertainty to — well, still uncertainty, but with good food and Keo beer.

So, until next time over a cup of tea, coffee, or a beer…

Cheers to the unscripted,
with love & mild chaos,
Z

Here I am, stepping out of my comfort zone and starting my sabbatical. Well, not quite as far out of my comfort zone as putting on a princess dress, getting my nails done, and going to the Welsh Ball… but close.

To be honest, I’m not sure my sabbatical has actually begun. I’ve still got one more salary payment coming, and then… fuck. That’s it. The real leap. Being open to where life takes me with no guaranteed income. Terrifying. Exciting. Both.

The first few weeks have been strange. They’ve felt like a usual summer holiday — but without the rush to get stuff done, yet somehow still rushing to get stuff done. It’s a mindfuck, to be honest.

The week immediately after we moved out of our flat was, as you’ll know if you read my Leaving Hong Kong posts, a mix of relaxing and running around — with a bonus round of medical tests thrown in for good measure.

Saying goodbye to Hong Kong wasn’t nearly as stressful or emotional as I expected. I reverted to a little bit of woo-woo tapping to help with the anxiety, but in the end, the excitement of a year unknown won out.

Heading back to the UK was weirdly familiar — but the feeling was different. It’s the first time in years that I’ve been in the UK and not seen my sisters immediately. Actually, two out of three I’ve not seen at all yet, and it’s been a month since I left Hong Kong.

Having said that, the summer has all been about reconnection. And ironically, it’s been with so many of my ex-Hong Kong friends and colleagues, those who were brave enough to leave already. It’s actually been very lovely, but I initially felt unsettled. I can’t put my finger on the reason. Just a feeling of no purpose — which is weird, because this was the purpose of my sabbatical. Maybe it’s because life has been so hectic: work, sorting probate, getting the boys in and out of university, packing up thirty years of adulthood, marriage and parenting. And finally, I’ve ticked it all off the list (almost). Now here I am in the summer. My plan was to do summer normally, but nothing is normal about this summer. Not in a bad way — just in a different way. And that’s OK.

I arrived with no plans other than a friend’s wedding and Son Number One’s graduation. Both were brilliant events. Both were filled with love and reconnecting with friends.

I’ve slept the best I’ve slept in ages. Enjoyed coffee in the garden. Coastal walks almost every day, including some beautiful walks on the Isle of Wight from a two-day trip on my parents’ boat to stay in Bembridge. A couple of pub visits, and of course, rides to the pub in the amazing Yellow Peril. (A brief history of Yellow Peril.)

My first reconnection was meant to be a cycle around the headland near Chichester with a friend from years ago who promised me e-bikes. Apps promptly downloaded and ready to go… I jumped in the car, programmed Google Maps, and merrily set off. Thinking I’d be early, I swung by Tesco and picked up a book to read while waiting.

About halfway to where I’d programmed into Google Maps, I got a message: “Meet at the harbour.”

FUCK! I was heading down the A3. For fuck’s sake. I had to find a place to pull off the road because I couldn’t make a phone call through the handsfree contraption in the car. Short story short: I’d fucked up and was heading in the wrong direction. Several voice notes later and a prompt turnaround, I was on my way back to the harbour. Instead of being early, I was twenty minutes late.

A shandy, a chat and some sandwiches took place before we, armed with our cycling app, went to hire our e-bikes. None to be had. So boldly, we hired normal bikes and off we went. Actually, it was a beautiful cycle—but the last bit into the wind nearly finished me off. At one point, I believe I was informed I was at least fifty cars behind. But that’s what you get when you’re fit and promise the less-fit one an e-bike. It was actually a brilliant ride, and when I asked how far we’d cycled, I was told it was at least ten stages of the Tour de France. I was happy to settle with that answer.

A flying visit with Son Number Two to the New Forest for a brilliant catch-up with John’s brother, wife and dogs. Then to Sarah and Martin’s for a barbecue, dog walking, and of course to collect my suitcase that Sarah lovingly carried to the UK for me at Easter.

The wedding was beautiful and filled with love—both for the gorgeous couple, who I’m so pleased have found each other, and for the reconnecting with friends from over the last fourteen years. Just amazing! I saw parts of the country I hadn’t seen before and, somehow unsurprisingly, saw me on the M25 for a total of about nine hours over two trips. For fuck’s sake. I’d not been through the Dartford Tunnel—now the Dart Crossing or some such—for years, and the traffic didn’t disappoint. But the biggest challenge was remembering to pay the Dart Charge online by midnight the next day or face being fined.

I remembered at random times of day, of course never when it was convenient. Eventually, I had the bright idea to set an alarm for breakfast the next morning—which I promptly forgot about. Fast forward to breakfast: I’d reconnected with a friend and managed to cause a stir in the dining room several times when my alarm went off. Which, once again, was not a suitable time to do the Dart Crossing payment. Hit snooze. Reset the alarm for an hour later. But of course, we were chatting, and breakfast continued for a long time, and my additional hour rushed past, setting the alarm off again.

I think it went off four times that breakfast. Fucking hell. I still didn’t get it done until I was back in my room. What a pointless exercise that was. But it gave us a story for later.

By the end of my second week in the UK, I had already connected with fourteen people who had all been in Hong Kong and at Renaissance College at one time or another with me, as well as five people from when we lived in Qatar. Reconnection was definitely the theme of the first part of the summer.

At the end of the wedding weekend, I drove to Bristol (part of my epic M25 journey was on this day) but I rediscovered my love of driving with the music loud and singing along. Stopping for coffee both at the service station and with Tina, so it wasn’t too bad.

Bristol was fabulous. I stayed about fifteen minutes’ walk from the centre of Bristol in one direction, and fifteen minutes’ walk in a different direction to Clifton. I had a fabulous coffee, lunch and explore there with Danielle (another wonderful Hong Kong friend). Siôn went off to Exeter, so I had my Airbnb to myself; I learned that I enjoyed and was comfortable on my own—and that Bristol is a funky town. I wondered why it’s taken me until Evan graduated to work that out. I walked with my Dad and we saw a Banksy. Life is good.

Evan’s graduation was as it should be — full of proud Mumma moments. I got to meet his girlfriend (not that it should matter, but Mum gave her seal of approval — I really liked her). I met up with some fabulous new people: parents of Evan’s uni friends, his uni friends, and of course, having the privilege to be invited to a graduation dinner on the 22nd of July for Evan’s first friend in Hong Kong, Neerav.

The 22nd of July is my wedding anniversary. I was so privileged to spend it with the wonderful Chawla family and celebrate Neerav’s graduation with them. The boys were in the same class together in Year 4 and became firm friends. To be able to see them graduate one day apart from the same university, all the way across the world, was just wonderful.

Evan graduated on the 23rd of July. I was so proud of him. His Dad would have been proud too.

Neerav joined us—Evan, Siôn, my parents and I—for dinner on the 23rd. His family joined us at the pub too, and I met some wonderful new people who I hope perhaps one day we will become friends.

The 24th was cleaning up. Cleaning up a student flat… I’m not sure I need to say more. But I did at one point find myself, waist-deep in a wheely bin (that I’d just cleaned—they owe me big time!) trying to squash the recycling down. Say no more!

My trip to Bristol resulted in me booking my first sabbatical adventure: Cyprus. Not solo, but with the boys. It was a twelve-day stay and included reconnecting with a lovely ex-colleague, Janine, from Ras Al Khaimah. Turns out, even after fifteen years, we can still natter away. John’s family. And Clare from Hong Kong.

Cyprus continued the theme of connecting and regenerating. But it wouldn’t be a sabbatical beginning without me reevaluating my life choices so far. For fuck’s sake. Cyprus will get its own blog entry… but you’ll have to wait to find out about my adventures with halloumi, Keo beer and a fucking long black snake.

Reconnections may well become the theme for my sabbatical. But in my first month of summer holiday, they go like this:

Reconnecting with friends:

• Hong Kong: 21

• Ras Al Khaimah: 2 (Tina is counted here and Hong Kong—we met and worked together in RAK and still work together in Hong Kong)

• Qatar: 5 (7 if you count my cousins who lived there—not with me, but we have friends in common—I counted them below)

Reconnecting with family:

• Cousins: 5

• Aunt: 1

• Sisters: 1

• In-laws: 6

• Nieces and nephews: 4

And of course, my parents, who have generously opened up their house to our chaos.

What I’ve learned about myself so far:

• My relationship with Google Maps hasn’t improved, for fuck’s sake.

• I am so blessed to have so many friends.

• I am OK on my own—and actually quite like it (for a bit).

• I can actually talk to new people (OK—this needs a lot of work).

• I love summer in the UK.

• I love coffee and beer just as much on this side of the world as I did in Hong Kong.

This definitely wasn't how I thought I'd be living in my fifties—widowed as the kids left home. Fuck! This is not how it was supposed to be! But I think I'm trying my best to make the most of it. This life. We have one.

So, until next time over a cup of tea, coffee, or a beer…

Cheers to the unscripted,
with love & mild chaos,
Z

So the best-laid plans… We all have them. A plan for our future. Something to aim for. Something to give us purpose—or at least a reason to get up and go to work.

But we just don’t know what’s around the corner.

Sometimes the most life-changing event is right there, waiting.

About eighteen months ago, I was sitting in a pub somewhere in London. I haven’t got a clue where — I can’t fucking remember! Life has taken me on a journey since then. (And in fact, the eighteen months leading up to that moment were also a journey, but that’s a story you already know.)

Anyway. There I sat with a friend and his partner, saying how I thought I had to accept that I was too afraid — too anxious — to travel again. Or at least to travel in the way I had known. The way I’d loved. Because I didn’t know how I would be able to do it on my own.

I wouldn’t have believed it, sitting in that pub eighteen months ago, if you’d told me what I’d be doing today (6th July 2026). But at some point, I just decided: the only way to deal with fear is to tackle it head on.

I only tell this story now as I reflect on the eighteen months that followed. And here I am. About to get on a plane. Leaving Hong Kong. With no plans for the next year, other than to see where life takes me. Off to see the world. Rebuild a life.

But first I have to leave my home of fourteen years, and that in itself is mind-blowing. Over the last ten days, I’ve been unwinding. And I can tell you: we all fucking needed it. It’s been bonkers.

The days have been filled with friends. And a brief medical mishap. (Thankfully, after a momentary scare, I’ve been told my heart is normal. Which, as Taff pointed out, is one part of life you definitely want to be normal. She may have implied that I’m generally a weirdo—a compliment, I might add—but to have a normal heart is good. And this I shall embrace.)

The rearranging of appointments and social engagements to get the all-clear was an added little bonus I didn’t fucking need. But thank goodness all is “normal.”

Leaving Hong Kong—a challenge in itself, and thankfully I’m not leaving leaving. Just heading off on an adventure before I return in about thirteen months. The last few months have been full of amazing days. Coffee dates. Lunches. Meals out. And of course, the inevitable and important beer and wine. I am so lucky to be surrounded by so many friends: my Hong Kong family.

This morning, my last morning in HK, was coffee and breakfast with some of these very lovely friends. Catching up and getting excited about our upcoming adventures whilst sitting over a coffee and a smoothie bowl at one of my favourite spots in Sai Kung—Little Cove.

I have been so lucky to be given so many treats, including the lovely cup of glow-up tea I’m currently drinking as I write this. My spa day at a local hotel. And my Zanna kind of day on a different type of budget! I had lunch at the Foreign Correspondents’ Club for the first time on Friday. Brilliant! I’ve often wandered past it, and to see the inside was a perfectly fitting end to my time here.

A fabulous day of sunshine and swimming, overlooking Hong Kong Island—with only some minor sunburn! Followed by drinks on the terrace at Red Sugar on the 1st of July—the anniversary of Hong Kong’s handback to China—fortuitously included the most amazing drone show I’ve ever seen. (This being my second, so I’m hardly experienced.)

The last few months have been like this…

I allowed my inner princess out and went to a ball. Yes, including putting on a fancy dress. (I know. Shocking.) Actually, I’ve worn a dress at least four times in the last few months—who the fuck am I?

I ventured to Macau for the last time—this side of my “gap year”—and ticked off House of the Dancing Water from my wish list. That show is mind-blowing. I’ve never seen anything like it. Worth a trip to Macau just for that if you’ve not been.

My first ever Hong Kong 7s! Yes, I know. How has it taken me fourteen fucking years to get there? For fuck’s sake.

I discovered espresso gin at Ginsanity. (Game changer.) Been treated to amazing days of massages and rooftop bars. I’ve been to leaving parties and retirement parties: including my own “make sure I fuck off” party. And I’m glad my arm was twisted into doing it. What an amazing night with so many wonderful people. Thank you to those who came.

Watching the dragon boat races. Squid fishing, Junk boat trips. Singing karaoke in Wan Chai. Dancing in bars I’ll pretend I don’t remember the names of. Rooftop bars with beautiful views of this beautiful city.

These last months haven’t just been about packing and paperwork. They’ve been about filling up on the people I love before I go. And I’ve been greedy about it, soaking up every coffee date, every lunch, every beer on a terrace. Because this… This is what I’ll miss most.

Thank you to you all. And a huge thank you to Steph, who opened her home to us in those chaotic final days. I promised not to rearrange her belongings—and I kept that promise.

We had a plan.

Then, in a single solitary day, that changed.

We promised to spend the rest of our lives together. But John spent the rest of his life with me—and for that, I am truly blessed.

However. The rest of my life. The unplanned bit. The bit neither of us considered when we promised “’til death do us part.” The bit about being left behind.

The rest of my life—singular. My life. Not our lives anymore.

My life. The unplanned bit. It begins today.

It’s scary. Terrifying. Because it’s the unknown.

But the unknown can also be full of adventure and excitement.

And this—this is what I’m embracing today. The excitement. The adventure. As I say goodbye to my life in Hong Kong as I have known it. My life as a member of a family of four.

I will always be a mum. But these days, as my boys begin their new adventures—the next stages of their lives—I say goodbye to that version of Zanna. And I learn to be the mum at a distance. Doing it solo. Building my own life.

So they can flourish.

And I can fly.

So, until next time over a cup of tea, coffee, or a beer…

cheers to the unscripted,
with love & mild chaos,
Z

I think the hardest part of saying goodbye to our very happy home of eleven years — the place that was there in our greatest sorrow, whilst also reminding us of how happy a family life we had there — was saying goodbye to our beloved Bilbo.

Parting with him was incredibly hard. For this year, I spent many hours contemplating what to do about him and almost didn’t take my sabbatical because of him. But I realised that if I couldn’t put my life on hold because the boys were leaving home, I couldn’t do it for him either. We researched bringing him with us to the UK, but then what? Evan’s looking for work. Siôn will be at uni and won’t be able to have a pet. And me? Of no fixed abode. The UK requires four months of quarantine for a rabbit, after a fourteen-hour flight in the hold of a plane. Bilbo is five. We decided his chances of survival and happiness were low — and his happiness was key. Taking him just wouldn’t be fair to him.

We named him Bilbo because of the adventures he’s had. During COVID, there was an infamous hamster cull here, and many people released their rodent pets. This is how we adopted Bilbo. He was rescued from the streets of Kowloon by the SPCA, and it was there we met and fell in love with him. He became our little ray of joy. John used to regale his colleagues with tales of him doing his Joe Wicks workout on a Sunday morning on his yoga mat, with Bilbo enthusiastically leaping up and down next to him.

Bilbo brought us much comfort and love when John died. He would come to my bedroom door and scratch on it like a dog until I opened it, then nuzzle into my hand to signal he wanted stroking.

We considered trying to find a foster family. Catherine from Catherine’s Puppies offered to help if needed (look her up on Facebook for the amazing work she does). I am very grateful for that offer but we didn’t need it. Because as luck would have it, after a fortuitous incidental conversation with a colleague at work, Bilbo found his new forever home.

Fuck, we love that rabbit. But sometimes you make hard choices for the sake of others, and this one was the right one for Bilbo. People will say we didn’t make the right choice, but I know: it was the right thing to do for him. The plan was for him to be with John and I after the boys left home. But life has a way of changing the best-laid plans. After John’s death, and even if I was staying in Hong Kong, he was living on his own for hours while Siôn and I were at work. That’s no life for a pet.

He went to a very loving home. We’ve had updates about his new BFF. A beautiful little girl who, we’ve been told, has been reading him stories. He’s been exploring his new surroundings. And from the photos we’ve been sent, it looks like we made the right choice.

Bilbo’s first adventure was to explore Kowloon. He lived the high life in the New Territories of Hong Kong. And now he’s living his best retirement life on Hong Kong Island with a loving family.

The Adventures of Bilbo Rabbit continue.

It has been ages since I last wrote. And so much has happened since then. Fucking hell, what a ride it’s been—think the biggest, loopiest roller coaster you can imagine. Ocean Park. Thorpe Park. Busch Gardens. (To be fair, it’s been about 37 years since I was at Busch Gardens, so who knows if it’s even still open. I’m dating myself here. Almost prehistoric.)

I had to go back and read my last posts because I genuinely couldn’t remember what I’d written or what the last life event was. Turns out: Easter. Sorting what to keep and chuck. Well, spoiler alert—the packing, sorting and chucking has continued. The shipping company came and were brilliant. In my chaotic state, I just sent it all to Chichester, UK. Future Z can deal with that.

Perhaps the best way to do this is backwards. This last week has been fucking crazy. In fact, forget the last week—let’s start with last Friday. 26th June.

I woke up on my airbed after a massive sleep. (It’s not as glamorous as it sounds.) My landlord had come round the night before to do an inspection. After she left, I inflated the airbed and sat on it at around 8pm. Full intention? Peaceful moment. Just a brief sit. Next thing I knew, it was 4:37am.

And that was when my Friday began.

It started with me sorting and chucking the last bits—the stuff you need until literally the last minute. Then getting ready for work. Packing up the hoover. Sneaking past the five sleeping bodies in my living room. (They were not there when I’d had my “little” sit down.) I then carried the hoover, in the hoover box, and my school bag to the road and waited for my lift. (Always grateful Christie X)

The work day began with our final staff briefing and an end-of-term assembly. I was very tempted to suggest playing The Proclaimers’ “I’m On My Way” but decided that might be pushing it.

After assembly, I taught my last lesson for the next thirteen months. Then came the handover: all school devices and charging leads. Turns out, I had quite a lot.

And then—the madness.

The rain began. At first, just rain. Then Amber. For those of you NOT living in Hong Kong, here’s the scale: Amber (exceeding 30mm/hour and likely to continue), Red (exceeding 50mm/hour), and Black (exceeding 70mm/hour — stay indoors, students can’t leave school, the public should shelter). The weekend before, we’d had Red and Black rain and stayed at school for an hour past the end of the day. That was the start to the long weekend.

So you can imagine the collective panic at the thought of being kept in school on the last day of term.

Amber rain began. School finished at 12 noon. We waved the students off — as we always do on the last day. And just after the buses had left, just as we were heading up to gather our things…

The Red Rain Signal was hoisted.

You can imagine our relief when we were told we could make our own way home if it was safe. I practically sprinted to the local mall. Bank. Pay in the cheque from the night before’s inspection. Lunch at Starbucks with my friend Jane—a brief breather.

And then—my afternoon of crazy began.

The final packing up and sorting. Actually moving out of our flat. Siôn’s friends, true to their word, didn’t leave him. A few faces changed but the shifts continued and they all mucked in and helped. Trips to the household refuse places. Clothes recycle bins. Meanwhile Siôn and I frantically threw our things into cases, packed up the last bits of everything. After about four hours, we all sat on the floor of the flat for the last time, having a floor picnic and a chuckle about life in general. Then we grabbed our Uber — which we filled with our luggage—and headed to stay at my wonderful friend Steph’s place. I solemnly swore not to rearrange her belongings while there. (A long-standing joke we like to play. This time, I’m keeping that promise.)

I think the hardest part of saying goodbye to our very happy home of eleven years—the place that was there in our greatest sorrow, whilst also reminding us of how happy a family life we had there—was saying goodbye to our beloved Bilbo (our rabbit).

I can’t do him justice in this post, but he deserves to be acknowledged. And as Siôn said: once he had gone, our home didn’t feel like home. Perhaps that made the emotional part of saying goodbye to the walls of our flat a little easier.

The weeks leading up to this moment have been frantic. To be honest, I am so over the decision making. Since Easter, everything has been a decision. Shall we keep this? Ship this? Donate this? Chuck this? Sell this? Give this away? Relentless. Endless. But we’ve almost done it.

Siôn’s friends were amazing, coming at various times. What blew my mind — I’ve known these kids since they were five years old—one turned up in his car, driving others to help take things to the tip.

My lovely friend Lisa did several tip trips with me over the months, with of course the inevitable coffee and breakfast between. I wish I’d taken photos of these things, but my head was otherwise occupied and I just didn’t think about it.

The stories I have about giving things away or selling things are ridiculous. Text conversations with people:

“How big is it?”
“How much is it?”
“You live very far from me!”

My inner voice—or sometimes my very loud outer voice—shouts out things like: “It’s on the fucking advert.” But the reality has been much more polite. Questions have been answered because I know, just like me, people’s lives are busy and people make mistakes or have misunderstandings.

Amongst my favourites: “You live very far from me, can you drop the price?” I wasn’t really sure how to answer this. I was giving it away for free.

If things were free, I asked people to please come and dismantle and arrange their own transport. I had to explain to someone, who told me she had children and couldn’t help lift or carry or even come to where I lived because she’d never been there before, that the bed needed dismantling and a van. She didn’t think this was possible. It made me realise how very different everyone is. Luckily we were able to sort it out at the end. Just more organisation issues.

But the very worst? The fucking people who either don’t turn up to collect something, or after days of communicating just “ghost you.” Just fucking text to say your mind has changed. Nothing annoys me more than that. Maybe it’s because I’m naive and assume people are like me—once you’ve committed, you’ve committed. Or at least have the decency to say otherwise.

While all this was happening at home, I was still teaching 500 kids a week. Which, of course, as the term was ending, meant 500 written reports. 168 clay projects to get through the kilns twice. 168 canvas paintings to be completed. A similar number of weavings to be taken off the looms. (Side note: when weaving with almost 200 kids, check how many can tie knots before embarking on such a project.) We had our School Wide Art Exhibition. Training on the new tech systems. Making sure all paperwork was up to date. Forward planning meetings for next year. A handover meeting with my replacement for the year. And of course tidying up and sorting out my classroom.

Then there was the paperwork—change of addresses, organising people to read the metres, all of it. All culminating last Friday.

I have to say, I did my best to keep up with my social life. But somewhere between the sorting and the goodbyes, I hit a few major emotional wobblies. The realisation that I’m about to embark on a year of adventure — while leaving my friends and HK family behind—hit hard. The people who have carried me through the last three years. The people I am eternally grateful for.

I was just thinking — what happens if I can’t manage next year? The fear of not having my friends nearby. But then I realised: I have them now. And I was spending all my time sorting and doing. So I just added back the missing ingredients and enjoyed as much time as I could balance with everything else. Doing things with my HK family. That is a post all to itself—I’m still living it.

(Yes, I am fully aware that the friends I’m going to see in the next year is exciting and I’m so looking forward to it! But in that moment, this was a very real feeling.)

All this crazy hasn’t been without its trials. I didn’t manage to keep up with the normal life things like shopping and eating as well as I should. Siôn took on this role a bit too, but he was also living his life and we were both packing up. Being run down came as part and parcel of this. Working in a school also ensured that children shared their germs with me. FFS—like I needed that. But here we are.

The term has ended. I am officially unemployed and of no fixed abode for a year.

It’s exciting and terrifying at the same time.

Onwards to the next adventure. I can’t wait.

So, until next time over a cup of tea, coffee, or a beer… cheers to the unscripted,
with love & full on chaos,
Z

Three years ago today, I had a family of four. I had just finished my advanced underwater diving course with my underwater navigation dive. I’d been practising with a compass app on my phone, trying to march around the beach, so that when I actually did it underwater I would be able to find my way back. Just so you know: I was successful. I got back to my starting point within a metre. The water was bloody cold.

Three years ago today, I completed my open water diving qualification. John and I were out for dinner at our dear friends Marc and Lori’s place. I remember being in the shower, after the dive at their house, listening to Marc and Lori laughing so hard as John regaled them with a story about his science lesson that day—which included some Toblerones, a microwave, and some event happening between students that meant the scientific purpose of the Toblerones in the microwave was never discussed.

By the time I got out of the shower, storytelling had moved onto other things. John promised to tell me the story “tomorrow.”

Of course, it became a story I would never hear from John. The first time I heard it properly was at his memorial service.

Tomorrow, 29th April is an anniversary, the third to be exact. I need to ask you to indulge me in a bit of sadness and not-very-pleasant storytelling today. I’m okay if you choose not to read this.

Tonight, it hits me once again how strange life is. How, whether you want it to or not, the sun keeps rising and setting and the days pass. I particularly remember noticing this as the sun rose on April 30th, 2023. I couldn’t understand how time was passing when my world was standing still.

The 29th of April being the day when I’d had to make the hardest phone calls of my life to my eldest son, John’s mum, his sister and brother—came to an end, I sat with my youngest on my bed as the 29th turned into the 30th. Both of us staring out the window, watching the sun rise, with a stream of never-ending comedy on the TV that we’d put on to turn off the silence.

I remember so vividly thinking: Here comes the first day without my love. How can life continue? Not mine, just life in general while mine seemed to stand still.

But it does.

It’s not always easy, but it is joyful. Just as it hit me that morning, it has hit me tonight: how very strange it still is. Good and wonderful too. But how you can live in a split parallel—feeling two very opposite emotions at the same time.

Tonight I had a message from Marc, saying he and his colleagues are going to do a memorial walk on Saturday. The hike John died on.

A message from my mother-in-law, saying how they are going to spend the 29th of April. Me replying with how son no.1, no.2 and I tend to mark it as well. Tears running down my face.

But between those messages, I’ve had messages about a dear friend’s 50th birthday celebration for the following weekend. Me responding joyfully and with excitement about spending time and celebrating her big milestone with her.

Life is both painful and joyful. It is precious and worth celebrating. It marches on. And life is weird.

I don’t know if I will hike on Saturday. I probably won’t. I’m not sure that walking to the place my husband died is somewhere I want to be. But how can I know unless I do it?

Plus, I have potentially got plans to head to eat Portuguese food and drink coffee in Macau and pack up my flat for our imminent departure from Hong Kong. I don’t know. I will see.

The first long weekend in May will always be challenging for me. I had to sit through and wait as the public holiday took place for the rest of Hong Kong. Our plans to see the Yai Yoi art exhibition didn’t happen. Instead, Siôn and I—with the support of an amazing group of people—sat through the weekend waiting for Evan to arrive back from his gap year travels in Japan, and for my parents to arrive so the process of the routines of death could happen.

I will always be extremely grateful to the group of people who met us at the pier off the dive boat. (We were getting our diving against debris qualification and picked up 65kg of plastic from the bottom of the ocean that day.) I will be grateful to them forever.

Because for those of you who don’t know—being on a boat just off the Hong Kong country park means there is no or limited phone signal. It was as we were about thirty minutes from shore that my phone started getting messages.

This was how I learned of John’s death.

A text. A fucking text message.

There are no words of thanks sufficient for Steph, who answered my call after that—one I’m sure she was dreading—and confirmed this message was fact.

The hugs and the forethought of those waiting at the pier: Steph, Tina, Lori and Marc. Geoff for his wise words of advice to my stupid questions and for taking Hugo (Siôn’s mate who was diving with us) and making sure he got home safely. The people from the dive boat and pub who liaised to get us to shore. The team of people from work who made sure we were fed and watered for well over a month. Steph and Tina who did day shift, and Toni who did night shift. Jill, who found all the flights from Japan to get Evan back to Hong Kong. Audrey, who asked her Cathay colleagues to check on Evan on his flight home.

And people who got phone calls like Jay, that went something like this:

Ring ring.

Jay: “Hi babe.” (as Jason always does)

Me: “John has died. Can you go and feed the rabbit? I have to go to the hospital.”

He was not the only one to receive calls that night with no formality or politeness—just starting with a “John has died…”

I have thought about this often and am so grateful—and will be, eternally—to my amazing Hong Kong and global family who were just there. Standing next to us from the minute they knew. Particularly to the heroes who were on the scene and gave John CPR until the helicopter arrived, and who looked after Marc. Their kindness and care in the moment, even though it wasn’t the outcome any of us wished for—the community that built from this moment has been wonderful. Thank you, if you are reading this. I hope you know how grateful I am.

After that weekend, the amazing support from Chinese International School—who liaised with the police, came with me to the coroner, made sure there was a bilingual person with me when I was interviewed, and then when I had to formally identify John. Of course, both the police and first ID of John had taken place at the hospital on the 29th. But now it all had to be done formally, and of course questions needed to be answered for an unexpected death.

Over the next weeks, months and years, there have been so many people who rallied around us. Each one of them I am truly grateful for.

But even in those dark moments, I noted how time is weird. Life is weird.

I’ve dwelt on the sad details tonight of this time three years ago. But at the time of his death, John was loving life. And so we celebrated this fact.

It was three weeks before we were able to say our goodbye to John. At his Celebration of Life, I ended my “talk”—because eulogy isn’t the right word—with: “We, the boys and I, will go on to live our lives as fully as we can. Throughout our lives, drawing from the life the four of us shared together, John will continue to guide us when we need it and I know we will make him proud, whatever we do! The people, whose lives he touched and made a difference to, are supporting us now, and I shall be forever grateful for that.

My love, know we are not alone.”

And fucking hell, we are doing our best to live as fully as we can and I can tell you we are not alone.

Tomorrow will be a tough day. Maybe we will be okay; maybe we won’t. But in general? Damn it, we fucking well will be.

Not all the time. The leaky eyes that get you when you don’t expect it but are feeling fine. The times when you feel deep sadness alongside incredible joy.

It’s all weird.

Life is weird.

If you read this on the 29th of April, raise a glass to John. Nick the pint glass. Dance to some shit heavy metal. Hike. Walk along the beach.

Here is the playlist we played during his memorial service, which reflects John’s eclectic musical tastes.

Whatever you do… remember:

Life is both painful and joyful. It is precious and worth celebrating.

And life is weird.

So, until next time over a cup of tea, coffee, or a beer…

cheers to the unscripted,
with love & mild chaos,
Z

Okay, maybe not this exact purpose. But close enough.

Easter holidays have found me having to sort what I want to keep and what needs to be sold, donated, or chucked. It’s earlier than I expected, but thanks to a certain leader of the United States and his political moves, shipping stuff back to the UK now has to go on its own adventure around South Africa. If we want things in the UK for when Son #2 starts uni in September, it needs to leave at the beginning of May. Thankfully, we have a long weekend then.

I’ve been amazingly lucky to have my friend Sarah here for two weeks over Easter. She’s helped me with this and made sure I actually enjoyed my holiday. We’ve gone from the ridiculousness of London in Macau to spreadsheets about leaving timelines and packing references. The poor thing left with two cases for the hold, a piece of cabin baggage, and a wee bit of hand luggage—a large majority of which was my stuff. She very kindly brought over her stacking suitcase collection for the occasion, and of course brought them full of yummy things: a massive bunch of rhubarb from her dad’s garden, hot cross buns (my favourite), and enough Bounties, Crunchies, and Mini Eggs to sink a ship. A perfect antidote to the emotion of reducing thirty years of adult life collections by eighty percent.

I’ve been going through the whole range of emotions while doing this. Poor Son #2 has had to hug his mother more times than usual, and on one occasion got a very soggy shoulder when I couldn’t stop the tears.

It’s funny what hits me. I thought it would be the big, dramatic things. But it’s not. I find myself hugging something seemingly innocuous—like Kate Bush’s Hounds of Love album—tears flowing. Or when Myles Smith started playing from my playlist (his version of “Birds of a Feather”). Do you know how appropriate those lyrics are when you’re crying into your late husband’s favourite fleece—the one you never really liked but now can’t get rid of?

My flat is upside down and inside out.

But the treasures—and absolute crap—that I’ve found have been amazing. I found photos in John’s old wallet. One of me, aged about twenty-four, I think. His player passes for the Dubai 7s. (I didn’t think to keep mine—yes, I played rugby back in the day. Even at the Dubai 7s twice. Probably around the same time as that photo was taken.)

It’s not all been packing. Sarah and I have had some explorations. We even managed to celebrate a birthday over her two week stay - Son #2 19th birthday.

We did a full day in Macau, which went from sublime to ridiculous—and I’m not entirely sure where one ended and the other began.

We started cultured. Senado Square. An old noodle shop (I had a Macau beer, obviously). The ruins of St. Paul’s. The Mandarin’s House. All amazing. All very historical. All very proper.

And then things took a turn.

We also managed to: ride in a taxi with David Beckham (well, a cardboard one, but still), climb on an old London bus, work at a British post office, play in the Queen’s carriage, and have our photos taken with a Beefeater and a King’s Guard.

Sarah had come all the way from Southampton—only to be taken to London.

We visited Tai O, the stilt village of Hong Kong, and here my two worlds met when Taff came to join us. We had great fun in the pouring rain, ate very yummy food at Fook Moon Lam (which of course had me chuckling at the name), ate the famous Tai O donuts, and even found a place for Husband Ticketing.

So many questions.

What are they expecting husbands for? Do you get a ticket when you leave your husband? Do you buy a ticket and then get a husband? It’s a bit like the Wife Cake shop in Sai Kung. (We’ve visited Sai Kung several times, and I’ve discovered that Red Dragon isn’t my favourite smoothie bowl and that other people make coffee better than me. The horror.)

Sarah and I went hiking from Hap Mun Bay to the other end of Sharp Island and even went swimming in the sea. Not without quite a bit of squealing. We obviously had to try to prove we were still young and participate in ridiculous photo-taking poses. I decided I needed to prove I was still young enough to do a cartwheel and a handstand. Which I did. (It was the climbing over the rocks that did me. I managed to stub my toe.)

I even persuaded Sarah to try floating—separate pods, of course. It wasn’t the best one I’ve had. It started off well, but after about twenty-five minutes I got a bit bored and fidgety. I decided to try a happy baby yoga pose to see if that would help with relaxing. As it turns out, you can sink. I managed to submerge my head, got a full nasal flush, and then had to feel my way—disoriented, in the dark—to open the pod and wash my face quickly.

I shall behave more appropriately when I go tomorrow with Taff.

And finally—a word for the ones who check in from afar.

The beauty of having lived everywhere is that people text from everywhere. A ping from London. A meme from Spain or Australia. A “morning—why are you awake?” from who-knows-where at 3am my time. Each one a tiny life raft.

But this week? A special kind of thanks goes to Sarah. Who flew in, brought rhubarb, stacked suitcases, held the spreadsheets, hugged me when I cried over a fleece I never really liked, and generally kept me on task, on time, and (mostly) sane.

She came all the way from Southampton to take me to London via Macau. And then she helped me pack up my life.

I owe her. Big time.

For now, I shall love you and leave you. I need to climb back under the bed and begin sorting again. Literally.

So, until next time over a cup of tea, coffee, or a beer…

cheers to the unscripted,
with love & mild chaos,
Z

I was going to write about our amazing trip to El Nido. And don’t get me wrong—it was amazing. If you haven’t been, go. Stunning beaches. Good coffee. Smoothie bowls worth writing home about. The bus ride up from Puerto Princesa is an experience in itself, particularly if you get a driver like ours who seemed to have three passions in life:

1. Speed.

2. Driving on the wrong side of the road—sometimes in the lane of oncoming traffic, sometimes in the hard shoulder of the oncoming traffic. (Why commit to just one lane when you can have them all?)

3. Practising his downhill slalom technique through road blocks. Without slowing down. Ever.

We had front-row seats. Spectacular views. Terrifying views. At one point I messaged a friend: “If you don’t hear from me again, I haven’t ghosted you.” Then I pinged him my live location. Just in case.

We made it. Alive. Shaken, possibly stirred, but alive.

There were adventures. Pharmacies were located. And toilet roll issues, toilet rolls it turns out, are elusive in El Nido—which led directly to The Toilet Roll Heist of 2026.

Operation: Beach Restaurant Heist.
Phase one: reconnaissance. One of us scoped out the ladies’ bathroom. Report came back: a stockpile of toilet rolls, visible behind the door, completely unguarded. Just sitting there. Asking to be borrowed.
Phase two: execution. The other of us disappeared into the bathroom with a backpack. Emerging moments later, slightly breathless, backpack suspiciously fuller, mission accomplished.

We did have an amazing time. I’ll post photos. The place is stunning, and the gap between Instagram reality and actual reality provided plenty of laughs.

But that’s not really what I need to write about.

Because somewhere between the island hopping and the smoothie bowls, I learned something about myself.

You might remember from my first post that Taff’s blood pressure was competing for top marks this trip. Which meant there were moments when she needed to rest, and I needed to... not. Which is how I ended up, one evening, facing something I’d been avoiding for nearly three years:

Dinner. On my own. In a restaurant.

Breakfast? Fine. Lunch? No problem. But dinner? Dinner is when the couples come out. Dinner is when you sit at a table for one and the empty chair across from you screams, “Your husband died and you’re alone.”

I know that’s not entirely rational. I have friends at the end of a phone. I’m not actually alone. But tell that to the bit of my brain that’s been protecting me from this moment since April 29, 2023.

Earlier in the trip, in to Thailand, I’d avoided it entirely—ate on the plane, wasn’t hungry, had a beer on the beach by myself instead. Problem solved. Fear neatly sidestepped.

But in El Nido, with Taff resting, there was no plane. No convenient excuse. Just me, a balcony, a stunning sunset, and the knowledge that there was a dining room potentially full of couples.

I sat upstairs for a while. Sketching. Watching the light fade. Arguing with myself.

Are you going to eat?
Yes.
Then go.
But couples.
So?
They’ll look. They’ll wander.
Will they?
Probably not.
But maybe.

For fuck’s sake, Z.

I gave myself a serious talking to. The kind that uses your full name and a tone that suggests you’re being ridiculous. And then I took myself down off the bar stools overlooking the view and migrated to a dining table.

To be fair, I chose the safety of the hotel restaurant. Close to my room. A swift exit available if required - back to the comfort of a friendly face in my room even if she was asleep. And as it turned out, I didn’t need it. The buffet was run with such charming, chaotic energy—think Fawlty Towers with well-meaning staff —that I was entertained for most of the evening. I didn’t stay long. But I ate. I enjoyed it. And I proved something to myself.

I can do dinner on my own. Particularly if the view is stunning.

Here’s what else I learned: some hotels, while beautiful, are deeply antisocial if you’re solo. Nobody talks to you. I’d even found myself hoping for some friendly -usually talk to everyone—types but that night, it was just me. And while I was brave enough to eat alone, I was not brave enough to talk to strangers.

Baby steps.

What is it about eating in public in the dark that’s so much harder than coffee and eggs with yourself for company in the daylight? Rhetorical question, but if you have answers—or super tricks for getting through dinner on your own—I’m genuinely all ears.

I know it’s stupid. I ate dinner on my own plenty of times when John was alive. Work trips. Nights away. But somehow, now, you feel like people are looking. Like they know you’re on your own and there’s no one waiting at home.

I had to remind myself: I look no different eating alone now than I did when John was alive and I was away on a trip.

For fuck’s sake. The only difference is in my head.

And maybe, slowly, I’m learning to quiet that voice.

I also learned that getting sick on holiday isn’t fun when you’re with friends. But the realisation of being on your own when it happens? That’s a challenge I hadn’t accounted for. Before, there was always an emergency backup. John. Then the boys. And this time Taff, right there beside me.

In El Nido town, I was on a mission: pharmacies. I was losing my battle with the cold, and it was time for reinforcements. I procured some over-the-counter medicine. Possibly should have been under-the-counter, given how quickly it worked—and the unknown side effect I’d discover on our six-hour return journey.

Halfway back to Puerto Princesa, I excused myself to a public toilet. Blew my nose. And then—

Sudden, searing pain. Right ear, across my skull. My ear popped. And the world left the building.

Vertigo. Full-blown, spin-the-room, grab-onto-anything vertigo.

You know when you were a child and you’d spin around and around, then stop, and the world kept spinning without you? That. In a rural public toilet on some island in the Philippines. Because I blew my nose.

Here’s what I remember: my brain was clear. Perfectly rational. Which meant I was having an internal conversation that went something like:

Do not fall face first into the toilet.
Good plan.
Also, do not fall into the bucket of water you have to scoop out to flush.
Also good.
If you could pull your trousers up and exit the toilet, that would be ideal.

I nearly fell face first. I didn’t. I did, however, walk out of that toilet looking like I’d downed a dozen beers in ten minutes. Taff took one look at me and knew something was very wrong.

The spinning lasted about fifteen minutes. I had to put my head on the table. Couldn’t text, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything except breathe and wait it out. Thank god Taff was there. If I’d been alone? I don’t know. I really don’t.

It kept happening for about a week. Every time I blew my nose. Same pain. Same spinning. Same internal pep talk about not face-planting into things but luckily much shorter and on these occasions I knew they would end at some point.

So. New lesson: I need a plan for getting sick when I’m traveling alone. Check-ins with people. A system. Because that moment in the toilet was the first time I truly felt the weight of what solo travel might mean.

It’s weird. I’ve traveled alone before. But somehow this is different. The lack of a built-in backup team changes things.

But here’s the other side of it.

For all the fears—the dinners alone, the vertigo in toilets, the moments of what the fuck am I doing—there is also this: the pure pleasure of exploring a new place. The exhilaration.

I noticed it, consciously, while island hopping. Sitting at the front of the boat, going over the waves, staring peacefully at the horizon. That was my happiest moment. Not the lagoons or the snorkelling or the Instagram spots. Just me, the sea, and the sky.

The way travel heals something in my heart without me even noticing it’s happening. That was the moment I felt it.

I quite like the person this journey is making me become.

Strong. Independent. Confident.

(Those who know me will say I’ve always been those things. And maybe they’re right. But the inner voice? She’s always had less confidence. She’s been quiet. She’s been scared. The difference now is that she’s not letting it stop her.)

So perhaps I can say it: strong, independent, and confident. Work in progress, but getting there.

Life is good. Definitely worth living. The world is beautiful, and I need to see more of it. And face my fears.

To sum it up: I need to find a new way to travel. I’ve never liked tour groups—too structured, too scripted. So maybe different accommodation. Maybe travel with a purpose. Something woo-woo. Something arty. Something that helps me meet people and connect, rather than just passing through.

If you have suggestions, I’m listening.

Any solo travellers out there with advice? Please feel free to share.

Because the fears are real. But so is the joy. And I’m not letting one outweigh the other.

But, until next time over a cup of tea, coffee, or a beer…

cheers to the unscripted,
with love & mild chaos,
Z

It’s been a manic couple of weeks since I got back from the Philippines—which is to say, life hasn’t bothered to slow down just because I’ve been processing.

Before I left, I had words with myself about the guilt of leaving Son #2 solo. The verdict? I leaned all the way in. Made him photograph me leaving, like a contestant on some bizarre reality show: Mum Goes on Tour. (Evidence: exists. Dignity: debatable.)

The last time I was in the Philippines, John and I weren’t even engaged yet. So yes—excitement was high. So were the nerves and, if I’m honest, a few emotions too.

Friday night arrived. I met Taff at the airport, and we kicked things off in time-honoured fashion: a mandatory drink at Feather & Bone. I opted for wine over beer, having done the complex mental maths that a pint + short flight + needing to climb over strangers = unnecessary adventure. Some risks just aren’t worth taking.

It was here, mid-sip, that Taff dropped the news: her blood pressure was currently competing for top marks, so she was going to need to behave a bit while we were away.

Cue a brief internal panic. After my manic half-term, I was quite relieved—but also suddenly worried I’d do what men apparently do when confronted with a partner’s new baby news: make rash, noble promises I’d immediately regret. You know the type. “Of course I’ll support you! I won’t drink at all! We’re in this together!”

Luckily, I talked myself down within about thirty seconds. The compromise I reached with myself was simple: as long as I could have a beer on the beach, I’d be absolutely fine.

Taff agreed. Friendship solid. Trip still on.

The flight was easy and pee-free. We landed in Clark, Grab-ed to the hotel, and walked in just before midnight. Clean room? Check. Bigger bed? Mine. Closest to the window? Also mine, as it turned out—Taff and I had perfectly opposite preferences, which felt like the first green flag of the trip. Friday the 13th had gone smoothly, and we tucked ourselves into our own beds. Airpods in, my sleep story was almost unnecessary.

We woke up on Saturday and wandered down to breakfast.

Here’s the thing about our newly rediscovered singleton lives: we’d both completely forgotten that February 14th was Valentine’s Day (turns out neither of us had ever really celebrated it). Also forgotten: the Philippines love to celebrate all Hallmark holidays. The hotel was fully committed—hearts, balloons, the works. We were greeted at breakfast with a rose each, which felt both sweet and deeply absurd given we were two women, partner-free on a mates’ trip, absolutely feral for scrambled eggs and coffee.

Our first giggle of the holiday came when we ordered. A latte and a mocha, obviously. Plus what we thought was the “scrambled eggs breakfast for two”—which, according to the menu, promised scrambled eggs, toast, jam, and a fruit juice.

Turns out, when you ask for “two scrambled eggs,” you get exactly that: two eggs, scrambled, on a plate. No toast. No jam. No juice. Just eggs. Staring at us. Not even enough for two.

Lesson number one: be specific when travelling.

(We laughed about this for a while. And then proceeded to order the breakfasts again! Including a second coffee for me!)

A quick tidy-up and repack, and we were off in our Grab—this one ordered by me, which felt like a small miracle given I’d set it up in a hurry and connected approximately seventeen apps just to make the payment work.

Our flight down to Puerto Princesa (capital of Palawan, for those playing along at home) was easy once again. And pee-free, just in case you were wondering. I’d snagged the window seat, and the view of the islands scattered below was spectacular.

We landed and were met by our hotel transfer—a luxury, as it turns out, because Grab doesn’t operate in Palawan. Good planning by Taff and Robin!

As we drove through town, we were greeted by many fun-filled sights, but the thing that caught my eye most was the motorised tricycles buzzing everywhere. The main form of transport, apparently. We would be brave and try them later. Today, I just watched in awe.

We arrived at the hotel and checked in. Small catch: the beachside pool was off-limits due to a Valentine’s Day dinner function being set up. The other pool was available, but by then we were hungry, and the pool could wait.

A quick Google search revealed a promising spot: “by the beach,” it said, and looked like an easy walk from our hotel. Perfect.

Off we went, expecting a gentle Thai-style beach stroll. What we got was high tide and a wall with a very reasonable drop into water we had no intention of swimming in.

So. Turn tail. Head back to the road. Turn right. Follow Google Maps.

Those of you who know my history with Google Maps and rural areas will already be laughing. Those of you who don’t: buckle up.

Clearly, it had been raining for some time before our arrival. We walked down a dirt track, dodging puddles, dodging tricycles, and occasionally—dramatically—dodging puddles with tricycles driving through them. We walked further. And further. The restaurant remained elusive.

What we did find: lots of people. Enjoying their weekend. With their portable karaoke boom boxes. The soundtrack to our adventure was, apparently, other people’s chosen ballads.

We eventually looped back toward the beach, hoping to find our hotel from the shoreline. Cut off by the tide again. Back up through the singing. Back to the road. Back down to the hotel.

Still hungry. And in my case: desperate for that beer on the beach. We gave up on adventure. Settled for the hotel’s beachfront setup. Ordered food. Ordered beer. Finally!

Then: our first swim of the holiday (and, as it turned out, our only night swim). Followed by our first competitive game of Tens—the card game Taff never travels without, because of course she doesn’t.

There were moments on that walk—dodging puddles, weaving through karaoke, not entirely sure where we were going—when I felt genuinely nervous. Very glad to have a travel companion. The kind of nervous that makes every fiber of your body question your choices and whether taking a sabbatical to travel alone is actually a good idea.

But here’s the thing about feeling unsafe in a foreign place, with karaoke blaring from every direction and Google Maps actively lying to you: it makes you ask big questions.

Is this insane? Am I insane? Is a year of solo travel actually the worst idea I’ve ever had?

And then, between one puddle and the next, the feeling shifts. And you’re not nervous anymore—you’re exhilarated. Free. Loving every chaotic second.

Both feelings are real. Both are valid. And both, I’m learning, can coexist.

The sabbatical is still happening. The fear is just along for the ride.

Our first full day in Palawan

It was clear the Valentine’s Day celebrators had enjoyed their evening of romance and heart-shaped photo booth nonsense. Our breakfast table was out by the pool the next morning, and while a few lingering hearts remained, the pool was open and the tables were ours.

Sunday’s breakfast was an… interesting buffet affair. I wasn’t convinced by some of the food combinations. Rice and boiled eggs? I wasn’t sure that worked. So I opted for a boiled egg in a bun and a rather basic coffee—which, honestly, was probably the most distressing part of the meal for me. We did, however, manage to experience some cucumber juice. To be fair, it was more like cucumber-flavoured Tang. After a sip or two, I decided it was far too sweet for my liking. (Taff may have had a different opinion. She’s braver and finished the whole glass.)

After breakfast, we ventured out along the beach—turning right this time. The tide was extremely low, exposing a wide stretch of sand and tempting us forward. We wandered along until we needed to cross a stream flowing down toward the sea. First poor decision of the day: crossing near the top, where the sand looked solid but was absolutely not.

Thirty seconds later, I was sunk a fair way up my calf into muddy, sucking sand.

I extracted myself. I extracted my flip-flops. We continued. It was a definite what the fuck moment.

With the tide now about 200 metres out, we kept an eye out for somewhere—anywhere—to clean my legs. That’s when we happened upon a beautifully kept swimming pool attached to what was clearly a significantly smarter hotel than ours. A security guard stood nearby.

Quick dash past him? Worked. But curiosity got the better of us, and we doubled back to ask if we could have a look around. (And a sneaky foot wash in the pool—shhh.)

What started as a muddy mishap turned into a very yummy coffee stop. Which turned into the spot for all future Puerto Princesa breakfasts and dinners. Which turned into a rather excellent stargazing session, lying on bean bags, drinking beer and very beautiful sunsets.

Sometimes the best discoveries come from poor decisions and muddy calves.

Between that delicious coffee and dinner, we managed a swim, a sunbathe, and our first adventure on a motorised tricycle into town. Which, let me tell you, is an experience. Think small motorbike + sidecar + absolutely zero suspension + a driver who treats every pothole as a suggestion rather than an obstacle. We loved every bumpy second. And the attempt to photograph the “Willy Shop” as we zoomed by caused several trips of much hilarity and high expectations. (We didn’t manage it until the return journey.)

A Very Brief, Slightly Selective History of Puerto Princesa
(Because I like to know where I’m standing.)

It was founded by the Spanish in 1872 when a governor named María del Pilar de la Gándara named it after Princess Asunción. By 1883, it was thriving—hospital, church, twelve whole roads. In 1894, someone declared it one of the most beautiful towns in the Philippines. There was definitely a sense of this period of history as we wandered around the old town.

At the start of the 20th century, the U.S. took over, and by 1911, Puerto Princesa had been promoted to provincial capital of Palawan. Big city energy.

Occupied by Japan in 1942. Site of the tragic Palawan Massacre in 1944. Liberated in 1945. Some of its history is very heavy, and we ventured to the site to pay our respects, but it was not open.

Puerto Princesa is now known as the “City in a Forest” (accurate, based on my window seat view). Famous for the Puerto Princesa Subterranean River National Park—a UNESCO World Heritage site—sadly not somewhere we managed to get to on this trip, but I would love to next time. Apparently, the city (which got its city status in the 1970s) is a leader in sustainable development.

We wandered the streets, explored, and found ourselves along the newly developed waterfront. Eventually, we stumbled upon a place making ice cream rolls—which was the perfect excuse to sit in air conditioning for a bit and pretend the heat wasn’t winning.

Conveniently, it was right next to a supermarket. So we stocked up on travel snacks for the next leg of the adventure: an epic, student-style, shared bus ride up to El Nido.

Google Maps said five and a half hours. Reality, with passenger pickups and a lunch stop, was closer to six. But that bus journey—and our adventures in El Nido, and everything that followed—deserves its own entry.

Part Two coming soon: island hopping, massages, strategic toilet roll theft, the hunt for decent coffee, and my valiant attempt to fight off a truly nasty cold with whatever Filipino pharmacies could throw at me.

Stay tuned.

There were times that I felt really nervous and excited. When feeling anxious I question in every fiber of my body how taking a sabbatical for a year and travelling on my own was a good thing. But then there were moments when I was exhilarated and free and loved it. Either way I know it’ll be the right thing to do.

So, until next time over a cup of tea, coffee, or a beer…

cheers to the unscripted,

with love & mild chaos,

Well, the countdown to the Lunar New Year was fast approaching, and this week decided to dial the craziness up to eleven. (Ha. As if it’s ever dialed anywhere else.) I’ve been running around like the proverbial blue-arsed fly. Is that even a thing or have I made it up? And why would a fly be running? I even made the critical error of calculating my working days left—a move that never fails to fill me with equal parts panic and giddy excitement.

All this domestic frenzy and mess meant one big thing finally happened: I took the plunge and ordered the boxes. Actual, tangible boxes from Tao Bao to start the monumental task of packing up my life. It’s a daunting process, and my house seems to exist in a permanent state of glorious chaos. I tidy one corner, and another immediately erupts. It’s like playing whack-a-mole, but with sentiment and an alarming amount of old cables. But the mugs have left the house and so have all my beads for my jewellery making.

Work, thankfully, was a lovely kind of madness. The run-up to Lunar New Year is always special. Our school’s assembly and our video finally aired, the dragon dance weaved across the basketball court, and the children arrived in the most breathtakingly beautiful clothes—I genuinely wonder where they store these miniature masterpieces the rest of the year. And I got to wear my favourite, beautifully patterned coat, which always feels like a small, personal celebration and of a course a pair of my New Year earrings.

In the middle of the whirlwind, Sion and I had dinner with… wait for it… my second cousin and her son. There we were, in Hong Kong, meeting for the first time (in my memory, at least) - four people connected by the simple, wonderful fact that our grandmothers were sisters. I love the sprawling, unexpected joy of big families.

Then, on Wednesday, Priscilla and I braved heading back to the ring. Boxing. Muay Thai. It deserves its own post one day, if I’m honest - it’s played a massive part in my grief process, helping me reclaim the left side of my body when it felt like it had abandoned me. I hadn’t been since June. An injured wrist benched me for seven months. (Caused, let the record show, by a perfect storm of terrible decisions: trying to arm wrestle my son to prove a point, followed by helping smaller children walk through wet paint. Note to self: retire from all physical point proving challenges immediately.) I’ve finally been given the all-clear. Stepping back in felt like coming home to a part of myself I was scared I’d lost. Turns out, the only part I’d lost was my fitness. For fuck’s sake!

Thursday, came a fabulous chance to catch up with the gorgeous Astrid, who’s back from Canada for a little while. A group of my lovely colleagues the perfect pause in the pre-holiday rush.

But the real headline is this: my Philippines adventure is almost here. A sneaky, practice run into the wider world before the sabbatical proper begins. I’m heading off with Taff, so it’s not quite a solo mission, but it is a big practice round in a skill I’ve never quite mastered: leaving a child in a different country.

Rationally, I know how ridiculous this is. The child in question is almost 19 and has just spent five weeks living (without me) on a Thai island becoming a dive master. Leaving him at home with the rabbit should not tie my stomach in knots. And yet, the act of me getting on a plane for an adventure, while he stays, feels strangely like I’m defaulting on the motherly contract. I knew what I was signing up for—the sleepless nights, the endless snacks, the being needed. I just didn’t realise there was a clause buried in there somewhere that said: And then, one day, you have to let them go and the pick yourself up, and go and retrieve yourself. No one reads the whole contract, do they? Oh well. This is the life I’m building now. He’s responsible, he’ll be fine - it’s just my own head, rattling around in the cage of who I thought I was supposed to be.

So, the Lunar New Year holiday crept ever closer. The packing deadline—two days before departure—came and went with a polite wave. I waved back, too busy to notice. Friday felt like a distant shore. And now I'm standing on it. The next adventure is beginning, and I am, predictably, winging it. But packing is done. Some things, it seems, never change. Thank god for that.

Next time, I’ll be writing about the Philippines — hopefully surrounded by beauty, not chaos. Luckily, I’ll have Taff by my side, and occasionally, probably… hopefully (at times) the sensible Amanda and Susannah will be making an appearance too. Fingers crossed.

So as always, until next time over a cup of tea, coffee, or a beer…
cheers to the unscripted.
With love & mild chaos,

Z

Amidst the invites for gin and ska festivals, a different kind of invitation landed: to try a float tank with some friends. Let me be clear: WE ABSOLUTELY DID NOT SHARE A POD. But we did simultaneously venture into our own private, watery pods of sensory deprivation. There’s solidarity in parallel weirdness.

For the uninitiated: you climb into a pod; also known, very seriously, as a sensory deprivation or ‘restricted environmental stimulation therapy’ tank—filled with body-temperature water and about a thousand pounds of Epsom salts. You can float in silence and darkness, or turn on the soft lighting, listen to music or “sound frequencies.” Look at me, sounding like a brochure. Who knew?

The choice was simple for me. The idea of being sealed in a dark, silent tank with only my own inner monologue for company was utterly terrifying. My brain on a good day sounds like a busy train station; on a reflective day, it’s more like that station during a power outage, with announcements blaring in the dark. So, I opted for the “sound frequencies.” (I can’t remember now what they were supposed to do—align my chakras? Speak to dolphins? Reduce thigh clenching?—but the mission was avoidance: to give my mind a soundtrack so it wouldn’t wander into the dark, scary, unsupervised corners of my own mind.

Now, for those who know me, you’ll also know I’m not brilliant at sitting still. The scene was set for comedy.

I listened intently to the pre-float instructions. I nodded seriously. Then, alone in the room, I promptly forgot approximately 50% of them. The most crucial oversight? The ear plugs.

In I climbed. I tested the lid (several times, as instructed, to ensure I wouldn’t be trapped—a real, if fleeting, concern). I lay back into the weightless brine… and felt my ear canal fill with warm, salty water.
Ah. Right.
The lid was pushed open, out I jumped, a human pickle fumbling for towel and desperately trying to spray fresh water onto my face so I could open my eyes.

Ears plugged, I settled back in. Five minutes of peaceful floating later, my brain piped up: “Did you turn off your phone alarms?”
You guessed it. Out I jumped again, a dripping, exasperated mermaid trying to reach for my phone to check that all alarms were off - they already were! Silent eye roll.

Third time’s the charm. Alarms off, ears plugged, I finally surrendered. Just me, myself, and I, accompanied by some very ambient, woo woo soundscapes.

Well. What can I say? It was profoundly strange. My head is not a quiet place, but eventually, the chatter softened. I bobbed gently, a buoy in a dark sea, until the voice from beyond piped up that my session had ended and just like that my time was up.

Afterwards, I was exhausted for about an hour; a deep, bone-heavy tiredness. And then, out of nowhere, I felt fantastically, electrically alive. Clear. Weirdly productive. It was an experience I genuinely felt the benefit of.

So, I did the only sensible thing: I promptly signed up for another session. Now I go monthly. Each float is different: sometimes calming, sometimes unsettling, always an experiment. I still haven’t braved the complete silent darkness. I still spend five minutes staring at the menu of “cosmic harmonies” and “theta wave journeys,” utterly stumped, before picking one at random. Perhaps I should research what they actually do. But, ha! That would require time, a commodity I’m perpetually short of.

For now, I’ll keep going. I’ll randomly select my soundscape, climb into the salty dark, and practice the fine art of floating —and trying not to forget the ear plugs.

Onward, one woo woo experiment at a time.

So, until next time over a cup of tea, coffee, or a beer…

cheers to the unscripted,

with love & mild chaos,

To talk about the ‘woo woo’ I’ve been dipping into, I need to rewind a little—to just after John died—and to explain my philosophy on life, what it was before, and how it’s been and continues to be reshaped since.

First, you should know John was a scientist. A geologist and environmental scientist by training, and a science and chemistry teacher from the day I met him. As far as I’m concerned, there is life, and there is the universe, and when we close our eyes for the last time… that’s it. We close our eyes forever. Richard Dawkins’ Unweaving the Rainbow explains it perfectly for me. But more importantly holding onto the fact that John believed this too has been vital for me. We played this clip from Richard Dawkins’ Appetite for wonder at John’s Celebration of Life which might help you understand our philosophy on life and death.

After John’s death, I held onto what he believed: that he was simply no more. His will stated, “dispose of my body as cheaply as possible” and just return him to the universe. (I still feel a pang of guilt that I haven’t sorted this yet… but that’s a story for another day. Let’s not go there. At least not now.)

If you’ve lost someone, you’ll understand that grief isn’t just an emotional process—it’s profoundly physical. For me, it felt like I’d had a stroke. The left side of my body seemed to forget how to work, I had no strength down my left side and I couldn’t comprehend written words. (A self-diagnosis, and again—a tale for another time but likely connected, in my opinion, to the fact that I found out about his death through a text message). I wore my grief in my muscles: my stomach, my jaw, and especially my thighs and bum, which were clenched so tight I once joked to a friend that my backside was probably in the best shape it had been in for years… with no one around to appreciate it!

I was incredibly lucky. My workplace provided counselling sessions, and I started seeing an amazing counsellor. In one session, she mentioned Emotional Freedom Tapping (EFT). I was skeptical, but she sent me articles—including how soldiers successfully had used it for PTSD. So I decided: Just embrace it.
This, to the me that existed before John died, would have been filed firmly under the category of “woo woo.” But, the next counselling session was my gateway into and opening my mind to woo woo - (to be fair not ALL things woo woo but some things anyway!)

I did my sessions over Zoom—finding private space in the Hong Kong office was and still is a kin to finding gold at the end of the rainbow, plus I didn’t have the emotional strength for the train ride home afterward. (The car saga is, you guessed it, another story.) So thank god for Zoom; those sessions became non-negotiable.

Picture the scene: me in my bedroom, camera angled to hide the chaos, beginning my first tapping session. Just as we started, the rabbit, Bilbo, (who believes he’s a dog) decided he needed to be let in and began scratching at the door. I let him in, not to cuddle, just to be present, and he settled near my feet. There I was, tapping, tears streaming, having a full-blown argument with John in one half of my brain while the other half tried to follow the therapist’s guidance. Emotions were definitely freed during this session!

It went something like:
John (in my head): “What the hell are you doing?”
Me: “Well, if you hadn’t died, I wouldn’t need to be trying this…”

Just as I was mustering my counter-argument, Bilbo launched onto the bed and began an Olympic worthy gymnastics routine of jumps and flips. So there I sat: crying, tapping (too hard, it turns out - a couple of bruises later turned up), arguing with a ghost, split-screening between my therapist’s patient face and a rabbit performing acrobatics over my keyboard.

I started laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. And after that messy, chaotic session, I realised the ‘woo woo’ was helping. It was the beginning of my adventure into finding ways to release grief from my body.

Not long after, a friend sent me a podcast about widowhood that stated becoming a widow shortens your lifespan—because your body keeps the score. I decided then: Fuck that. My boys need at least one parent. So I made a choice to stay open, to try things I would have shrugged off or even ridiculed before.

Nearly three years on, I still can’t shake the jaw clenching or the tightness in my thighs or bum. (A mouth guard has saved my teeth!) The woo woo journey continues. And so, stubbornly, do I.

I had intended to dive straight into my latest ‘woo woo’ session during this post, but it turns out I needed to share the backstory. So consider this Part One: My Unlikely Descent Into All Things Woo Woo. Part Two—the one with the actual flotation pods, breathwork classes, optional crystals, and less rabbit interference— will follow.

So, until next time over a cup of tea, coffee, or a beer…

cheers to the unscripted,

with love & mild chaos,

So, the last two weeks have been normal kind of weeks. Which, in my current lexicon, means it was a delicate juggling act between the profoundly mundane and the occasionally surreal.

For those of you playing along at home: my day job is wrangling the creative chaos of 498 small humans aged 4-8 every week. (Yes, I counted. Yes, the number is mildly terrifying. I am a visual arts teacher, which is essentially being a ringmaster, therapist, and actor rolled into one.) I (mostly) adore it. It also drains me to the point where my own personal to-do list often feels like it was written for a more energetic, less shattered-inclined version of myself and is possibly, (or at least that’s my excuse) reason for a drink at the weekend!

My personal agenda for the last couple of weeks, in no particular order consisted of:

Parenting: Picking Them Up, Letting Them Go

Mission: A two-part operation.

Part One: Get Son #2 to submit his uni application before the deadline. This involved strategic hovering, absorbing impressive levels of teenage growling, and perfecting my audition for ‘World’s Most Annoying Mother.’ Success! He submitted it with a whole ten days to spare. I am insufferably proud. And possibly deaf in one ear from the sighing.

Part Two: Witness Son #1 navigate the final gauntlet of university. After several late nights, strategic sleep-ins, and one legendary all-nighter, his dissertation is submitted. The end is beginning to loom—six months left, culminating in a huge, greenlit film project that will be screened at an IMAX theatre in June. His wide-world escape is being plotted in frame rates and storyboards.

Part Three: Mission: Bedroom Exodus. Agent: Son #1. Deadline: The 20th. This is his last rodeo in our family home, and the packing process has been… emotional. For me. The past week has been a whirlwind of “Keep, Charity, Bin?” – a game where the rules change every five minutes and the referee (me) is overly invested. Tough decisions? You try justifying the existential value of a Lego collection to a 21-year-old with a flight to catch.

Part Four: Fighting the guilt of having to move us out of our flat and taking Son #1 to the airport, knowing he won’t ever be coming back “home” to this place. And while I know—deep in my bones—that home isn’t just walls, that he will always have one with me… walking him out of his childhood home for the last time broke something quiet in both of us. He was so strong. His wonderful friends came, spent those final hours with him, and saw him off—to them, I am eternally grateful.

I waved him off, climbed into a taxi, and then it hit: that wave of sadness I’d braced for. What I hadn’t braced for was the physical grief followed by the urgent, undignified race between which could flow faster—my snot or my tears. The lovely taxi driver, without a word, became an unexpected angel in the front seat, feeding me a steady flow of tissues until the race finally ended.

Playing Professional Artist.

I framed and delivered my lino prints for the upcoming exhibition. (It felt suspiciously like a real, grown-up thing to do. I kept looking over my shoulder for the adult who was supposed to be in charge.) Honestly, by the time I arrived at the studio, I was too exhausted to print a damn thing. So I trimmed some frames, made a cup of tea, had a good catch-up with some of the other equally hollow-eyed studio goers, and called it a day.

It was a quiet win—and it left me genuinely excited to see it all come together.

The Printmaking Exhibition was held at the Hong Kong Visual Arts Centre on Kennedy Road from January 15th to 19th, 2026. It was the perfect place to wander through if you were in the mood for ink, paper, and mild chaos in a lovely setting! This was my 4 art exhibition in the last 4 years but this one was a bit different as was at a proper Gallery in Hong Kong. The South China morning post (one of the local HK english speaking News papers) was there, and groups of other people were invited to visit.

Wrestling the Ghost of Paperwork Past.

Contacting the lawyers in the UK—both probate and conveyancing. There really isn’t too much humour I can find in this list item. Because, apparently, the administrative fallout of a death has the shelf-life of a watched pot trying to boil. Spoiler: This task remained gloriously, definitely unchecked for way longer than it should have done.

Confronting a Cupboard.

The Welsh dresser holds multitudes of cavities holding silent, judgemental inanimate objects. This week, I vowed to sort just one of its cavities. Just one. (The mugs are watching from the kitchen, judging me. - but thanks to my last post a lot of them have new homes!)

Managing Domestic Revolutions.

The old washing machine decided a quiet retirement was beneath it and chose to go out in a blaze of glory—literally. Cue the exciting, overly complicated delivery of a new one that still doesn’t load or hang out the washing without my help and support!

Prioritising the Vital.

Padel. Friends celebrating Birthdays. Dinner. Dancing. A Trip to Macau. And, in a moment of what I can only describe as optimistic curiosity, a ‘woo-woo’ breathwork session that left me wondering about my life choices in a whole new way. (This, I think, deserves its own post. The experience was certainly different and has left me with sore legs.).

Oh, yes and to cap it all, I’ve been fighting a nasty cold that has been winning!

So, until next time over a cup of tea,lemsip for me(this week anyway),

coffee, or a beer…

cheers to the unscripted,

with love & mild chaos,

I wasn’t sure how today would play out. I’m just starting to feel human again after a nasty cold. Evan has been packing up to head back to the UK—his last few days in our family home—so maybe that’s why John’s birthday feels heavier than I expected. Or maybe grief doesn’t need a reason.

Today also marks the final step in undoing some of the financial ties we built together. I’ve been making grown-up decisions about my finances—no longer ours—and learning to trust myself has been its own kind of journey. There have been so many people helping me, and I don’t know if I’m doing everything right, but I’m trying. It feels poignant that it’s all falling into place today.

I’ve always loved celebrating John’s birthday. It was the day he came into the world, and consequently, into mine. Without one, the other wouldn’t have happened.

So here I am, on the day he was born, finally trusting myself to rebuild a foundation he helped lay. Some might say he’s looking out for me from another place. As someone who doesn’t quite believe in that, I prefer to think that, throughout his life, he built me up—helped me trust myself, helped me believe I could stand on my own. Taking these steps today feels like a gift he left behind: the confidence to act, even when it’s hard.

This poem was read at his memorial at school, and his Head of Secondary sent it to me afterward. It’s by David Harkins.

‘He is gone’

You can shed tears that he is gone,
or you can smile because he has lived.

You can close your eyes and pray that he’ll come back,
or you can open your eyes and see all he’s left.

Your heart can be empty because you can’t see him,
or you can be full of the love you shared.

You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday,
or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday.

You can remember only that he is gone,
or you can cherish his memory and let it live on.

You can cry and close your mind, be empty and turn your back.
Or you can do what he’d want: smile, open your eyes, love and go on.

Every second line in this poem resonates with me. It’s my motivation. Perhaps, in a way, it’s even my role model.

We’d planned a tribute that moved between the old and the new: a toast with Superbock at our family favourite, The Diner—complete with PAC-MAN and a massive burger—and a sunset from TopTown, a bar John never knew, over the Hong Kong skyline he loved. It was to be a circuit between memory and the present, in the city that’s been our home since 2012.

Well. We were 0 for 2. Fate decided our tribute needed a plot twist. TopTown, up on the 31st floor, was closed for a private function. Undeterred, we pivoted to The Diner… only to discover it has permanently closed down. The universe, it seemed, had vetoed both our beer and our nostalgia.

So, we rerouted. We shared a Thai meal at another old favourite (the beer was good, but alas, not a Superbock). A quick, defiant Google search led us to an equally lovely—maybe even better—rooftop bar on the 45th floor, where we finally got our sunset drink over the harbour (not a Superbock either but a beer never-the-less). The homage was unplanned, but the love and the view were exactly as intended.

Today, my boys and I celebrated their Dad—the music, the joy, and the love he brought into our lives. We will cherish his memory, and in doing so, choose to be happy for tomorrow because of the love we were given yesterday. And tomorrow, together, we will love and go on.

Every time I open a cupboard, I’m met with a silent, judgemental question from an inanimate object. “So. What’s the plan for me?”
I don’t have one, thanks for asking.

The sheer volume of mugs is a national security issue. Let’s be precise: we have a Starbucks mug problem. The last count landed somewhere between forty and sixty. Sixty. We could host a parliamentary sub-committee and serve them all coffee.

So how did we get here? Let me set the scene.
1999. The Philippines. BM times (Before Marriage, Before Engagement, when a bad decision just meant sunburn and one beer too many - some bad decision making I’ve yet to grow out of!). We were visiting our lovely friends, Tom and a surprisingly pregnant Rachel (a story for another day). It was a fabulous adventure, and our very first encounter with the green siren logo of Starbucks. Later that year, when we got engaged, those same wonderful friends posted us a pair of Manila Starbucks mugs as an engagement present.

And reader, they were the gateway drug.

What followed was a 23-year, globe-spanning ceramic acquisition spree. We didn’t have a collection; we had a mug dynasty. Mugs from every continent we’d touched. Each one a handle-shaped echo of an airport, a holiday, a memory.

Now, they glower at me from the cupboard. “What the actual fuck am I supposed to do with you all?”
Sorting them feels less like tidying and more like conducting interviews for which memory gets the golden ticket to the future.

I am open to suggestions. Including, but not limited to:

1. Opening a pop-up café where the mugs go home with their drinker (“The Ghost of Holidays Past”).

2. Quietly moving house and leaving them all here.

3. Your better idea, because I am fresh out.

   

   (Please note this is one design style of Starbucks Designs - I have an equal number of mugs in sets with 3 other design styles - I am going to only keep one set!)

This, in a nutshell, is my new existence. Every opened door is a confrontation. The kitchen? Mugs. The bedroom? A treasure hunt where the treasure is a memory and the prize is… practicality.

That’s why I started with the Christmas decorations. Seemed safe. Festive. They had a hard deadline—the “Twelve Days of Christmas” rule is basically a royal decree. My system was foolproof: I want and I don’t want. Special ornaments on the table, the rest in the boxes of doom. Easy. Clean. Emotionally sterile.

If only.

The first crisis came in the form of The White Plastic Beads of Mild Annual Annoyance. Never long enough to drape properly. Their sole purpose, for a decade, was to make me mutter, “If I arrange them like this, no one will notice.” As I went to condemn them to the I don’t want pile, my hand froze.
They were… familiar. They were part of our story. The ritual of mutual grumbling as John untangled them. Against all odds, they had become sentimentally charged.
(I’ve noticed this: everything, since becoming a widow, has a new layer of sentiment glued to it. For Fuck’s Sake.)
I had to stage a full-blown intervention with myself. Just let them go.
Into the box they went. A small, ridiculous victory that felt like a profound loss.

Then, Phase Two: The Eco-Angst. I couldn’t just condemn the “I don’t want” boxes to landfill. Thankfully, during a retelling of The Great Ornament Saga over wine and a foot massage, a brilliant friend waved a magic wand. The whole lot is now packed and en route to—you guessed it—a wonderful new home in the Philippines. The poetry is not lost on me. It felt like the universe giving me a subtle, reassuring nudge.

(Christmas Tree and decorations beginning their journey to their new home!)

So. That was the easy part. The warm-up act.
I am now staring the mug-pocalypse countdown.

If anyone (locally) would like to adopt a well-travelled, deeply loved coffee vessel with more air miles than a retired pilot… my DMs are open.

Onward. One emotionally fraught cupboard at a time.

Until next time, over a cup (or a Starbucks mug) of tea, coffee, or a beer…

Cheers to the unscripted,
with love & mild chaos,
Z

This is a question I’ve asked myself at least twice now. The first time was last summer. I’d just said goodbye to Son Number One at Heathrow and was making the grim trek back through departures to fly to Hong Kong and back to work.

I was feeling particularly weepy, desperately trying not to blub my way through the airport (and, more importantly, trying not to utterly embarrass Son Number Two, who was accompanying me). Mission: Compose Yourself. Status: Failing.

Once on the plane, I was wedged in an aisle seat next to a perfectly nice stranger. After takeoff, I decided comedy was the only cure. I scrolled through the in-flight entertainment and landed on the fourth Bridget Jones movie. Now, I’d been warned it was quite sad and to watch it at home before the summer. Did my little brain remember this? Of course not. I thought, “Perfect! Light, funny, a mood-lifter.”

For those of you who haven’t seen Bridget Jones’s Baby: The Later Years or whatever it’s called… I could not have been more wrong.

Turns out, between Movie 3 and Movie 4, Bridget became a widow.

Her monologue at the start—trying to explain the feeling, the way life treats you, the way people treat you after becoming a widwo—was so accurate it was like someone had stolen my diary (not that I write one but if I had…). There I was, trying my absolute best not to sob my eyes out, occasionally having to get up, lock myself in the airplane toilet, have a proper five-minute sub, splash water on my face, and return to my seat as if nothing happened.

It was about ten minutes in to the film when I first asked the question: When the fuck did I become Bridget Jones?

(A quick caveat here: I have not braved, nor am I ready to brave—quite possibly ever—the world of online dating. I am quite happy to live vicariously through my far-braver friends who are, thank you very much.)

But it was at that moment, at 35,000 feet over France or Belgium or somewhere similar, that the ridiculous clarity hit me. I decided right then: I would go back to Hong Kong, put in my sabbatical application, and start writing My Life Book Number Two.

So, here’s the plan. My sabbatical from work begins in July 2026 and continues through to August 2027. I was going to start this blog once I was on the road, to keep a record of the new adventure

.

I had promised myself that I would start sorting my adult 30 years of adulthood, married life, and motherhood to pack into boxes after Christmas. The sorting, the keeping, the letting go—it’s all part of the journey. I woke up on the 26th of December 2025 and my first through was Fuck! It’s after Christmas.

So my next chapter and likely next post: The First Box. (Spoiler: It’s full of mugs. Why do we have so many mugs?!)

As last year ends and this year begins…this post is for the people who were beside me through the shit. And I mean through it. The ones who showed up, the ones who came back into my life and the new friends who have supported me, even if their own world was falling apart. You know who you are.

You’re the ones who sent me photos of the ocean when I couldn’t see the horizon. The ones who dragged me exercising when I couldn’t get off the floor, and those who took me for coffee, made sure I ate food and drank wine & beer as well as taking me out dancing (because, priorities). You’re the ones who were at the end of the phone at 3 a.m., no questions asked. The ones who climbed into bed with me when the empty side of the bed was too big. There are too many of you to name, but I think you all know who you are. I love each one of you, fiercely and in my own way. You brought shards of joy back to a life where I thought the story had ended.

I owe you more than I can ever say. Whilst, I don’t have the words, I thank you from the bottom of my dancing shoes.

Okay, so that’s enough of the seriousness… or is it?
I guess a bit of backstory is needed. To set the scene for why I’m now doing the seemingly insane.

In 1996, I went abroad to teach for the first time. And in a supermarket in Doha, Qatar, I met the man who would become my husband for 23 years, the father of my children, and my partner in crime for nearly 30. That was John.

And then, on April 29, 2023, he went out on a favourite hike… and died there on the trail, never to come home to the boys and I.

I received the worst phone call of my life. And then I had to make the worst phone calls of my life.

So that’s the backstory but that’s not what this blog is about. The last 2.7 years have been… a journey. But one thing I know for certain is this: John was a man who loved life. For the boys and I not to live ours now would be unthinkable.

For me the nest is officially emptying. Son number 1 has flown off to uni and graduates this summer. Son number 2 has finished school, is in his gap year, and is about to launch into his own adventure. So now it’s… me. On my own.

And while FUCK, this is not how it was meant to be, I am sure as hell going to do my best to make the most of it.

So, here’s the plan. I’ve taken a sabbatical from work, from July 2026 to August 2027. I was going to start this blog once I was on the road, to keep a record of my new adventure.

But I’ve realised I have 30 years of adulthood, married life, and motherhood to pack into boxes between now and then. The sorting, the keeping, the letting go—it’s all part of the journey.

So, I’ve decided to start now. For those of you brave enough to follow along, you’ll get the pleasure of the emotional rollercoaster ride from my next post.

This isn’t just a travel blog. It’s about packing up a home, cheering my children on, saying goodbye to Hong Kong (for now), and figuring out what comes next. I had promised myself I’d start the planning after Christmas - so here we are! Think of it as Book 2. Some familiar characters, a whole load of new ones, and a plot I’m writing one day at a time.

Thanks for being here. It means more than you know! And FYI if you don’t like “the fuck” word you may want to rethink your values or at least ignore them if you choose to read on. It is, after all, one of my favourite words!