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The dots


Polka dot thinking is inspired by the every day stories that weave around us.

It has nothing to do with such polka dot icons as Hello Kitty, Betty Boop and Minnie Mouse. It has everything to do with the observations and writings of a rational woman who owns a cuckoo clock and has an irrational fear of the number eight.

Polka dot thinking believes that the remarkable is in the ordinary and gets ridiculously excited over covert moments. The dots can appear in any form. In this blog, observations are turned into poems and fictional vignettes and Christmas Eve reflections are re-imagined into social commentaries.

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Revels and Rebels XIV

Dear Santa, It's Epiphany. Twelfth Night. You're about to hang up your Christmas sack for the festive season and here I am writing to you with my last-minute request. I know, I'm as irritating as a Christmas Pudding that refuses to light no matter how much warm brandy you pour on it.  Soggy Christmas Pudding aside, there is a reason why this letter is late. I've been ruminating over what to wish for. And the thing is this - I still don't know what to wish for. My current plan, or hope, is that in writing to you I might write myself into my wish. The thing is this, since the pandemic began, I'm having trouble finding a way to live in the world. Working out what I must suffer, what I can change. How to navigate sorrow and joy. And how to live with the conflicts within whilst the noise of division and marginalisation rage all around. Sometimes, they become one of the same. Sounds confusing, right? And fuelling this confusion is the general level of fear we have to
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Revels and Rebels XV

Dear Santa, When I was kid, I created a make believe village. Do you remember it? Every Christmas, between the ages of eight to twelve, I asked for Philip Laureston village figurines – perfectly detailed buildings complete with climbing roses and house signs. My village started with a cottage, the Rose and Crown pub and an oak tree. Over the years it was extended to include a farm, a school, a church, a village hall, shops and a duck pond. Each week I visited the villagers and had delightful conversations and arguments, and in the messiness of my imagination I understood what made their imagined lives happier. I remember one heated debate where the parents demanded a school house because they thought it was inappropriate to educate their children in the Rose and Crown pub. The children rather liked their lessons in the snooker room. The parents won. Since the Pandemic began, I can honestly say that I’ve truly understood what life was really like for my imagined villagers. This idea of
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The last jam sandwich

Alpha (Left) and Omega (Right), London 2020   It’s how you knew breakfast time was over. You and your sister, sitting like bookends At the top of the garden steps. Us, at the bottom, throwing Chicken strip, mini-burger, liver biscuit And then – the jam sandwich – presented. You’d sit down, eyes thinning to a slit. A moment of meditation before the second arrived And Paradise fell into your mouth. Foxes.  Born into our garden amid a pandemic spring. Accepting of the new world, whilst we could barely stand. We named you, Alpha and Omega, In respect of your wildness, Your status in the earth. A menace others called you. We took a breath as you approached  Mange-stricken, injury-ridden, motherless. And so our routine began – chicken strip, Mini-burger, liver biscuit and a jam sandwich Sprinkled with magic dust to heal. This spring, you’re all grown up. Teenagers who know how to catch. Playing together, risking it all on the The trajectory of sliced bread.  As teeth meets jam, you run wi
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