Call me old fashioned but I adore superbly executed spots, print ads or any other advertising forms signed off with a carefully crafted tag. The modern-day equivalent of a wax seal: a mark of completion and standing. Today though, I’m unfortunately finding myself more often than not shrugging with indifference at the end of otherwise perfectly enjoyable advertising.
A while back, I came across an ad that forced me to pay it some attention. I’m talking about a Royal Mail spot that shows real postmen and women delivering parcels up and down the country. …
I’m worried. Not because of the pandemic. Not because, for the past five weeks, I’ve left my home to take out (and bring in) the bins — and nothing else. Not because my parents, sister and her boyfriend all work ‘on the front line’.
I’m worried because once the dust settles and the pages of history are sealed, waiting for future generations to discover, we’ll realise we should — collectively — have made a much better account of ourselves.
Yes, nostalgia can be a potent force; we’ve a habit of tidying up historical foibles. …
I’m an ostomate. It’s a noun my spellchecker refuses to accept. I’m not overly surprised by that.
After all, I also have OCD and I still find that’s a misunderstood disorder, despite being covered in the press and wider media to a greater degree in recent years. Stomas are understood lesser still.
I always thought living with a stoma would be practically unbearable. In all honesty, I thought I’d feel embarrassed and disgusted just by looking at myself.
That was me then, before my operation. Today, just under two months post-surgery, I have a very different opinion. …
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