LIKE FOLKLORE – NHƯ CỔ TÍCH | Nguyễn Thị Phương Trâm

Sydney, Ngày 12 Tháng 8 Năm 2026

Ngày sinh nhật của cô con gái thiêng liêng, xinh xinh tuổi thanh xuân kèm những bé học trò thời AI. Tôi với quyết định xóa hết những bản dịch AI viết lại cuộc đời mình bằng ngôn ngữ của mẹ. Vài hàng chữ không thiếu sự tự tin là mình sẽ sai nhiều, khác gì một thương rượu rót vào hư không. Như phù du ta đẹp như ngôn ngữ của Ocean Vương đọc mãi dòng nước mắt. Những con đò đi buôn chữ sẽ không bao giờ in.

1st May 2008

Most of my memories had some reference to smell. Cuddles and a waft of my nine years old BO reminds me of my teenage years, how she’s grown. Or, filling petrol brings me back to the nights packed together with forty other souls, under the hull of a five by eight (or ten) meter fishing boat those two decades ago. Those days were full of fear, hope, and full of excitements of a ten year old. Dreams of hopping rats (kangaroos), lands of beautiful Arabian sunsets and money would fall from the heavens like manna.

The same age as my daughter now, we left in the early morning of August 1980. After the five years my father had spent in prison because of the new regime.  Mother with my baby sister Thảo who never knew she had a father, an older sister Anh and younger brother Tùng. The family made a pit stop as promised by father to visit Saigon Zoo. The smells of elephant dung and monkey pee were the last happy memories of Vietnam. When I look at the black and white photograph of the six of us in front of the zoo, I can almost smell that elephant in the wind. 

“Mum, how many times do we have to listen to the same story”, asked my first born. My answer is always “I used to complain to my father as well, but it is the history of our family.  At least you guys don’t have to listen to it being told to a complete stranger in a strong accent”. I want to write before the story is distorted and the senses have forgotten these memories. Faith and hope fed my mother to endure the years, and this is what I want my children to learn. Relate maybe.

My husband has just come back from a trade fair in Guangzhou, as everyone who wants a piece of China right now. This is the longest two weeks ever the children and I are without their dad. The extended network of family and friends responded with shock. Overwhelming invites to cook for us, and even offers to sleep over. There were great fears of loneliness and home invasion. Unbeknown, Khanh left post-it notes everywhere possible. I was surprised he didn’t leave instructions on how to flush the toilet.

My daily visit to my mother puts the state of things in perspective. What happened in those five years without my father? I can’t recall whether it was morning or noon, but I do remember the clear blue sky. The adults discussed, may be father and his friend will only be kept for a few months at the most. We were happily waving him goodbye. Only years later upon Phương Anh’s wedding, grandmother retold of an incident on the day the North Vietnamese army entered Saigon. Father (Ba) had the gun to our heads, but my mother kept her faith. I have never heard or seen my mother (Ma) cry throughout that period of time. Ten years younger than my current age of thirty-six, suddenly a single mother of four. 

Little was known about cholesterol or Weight Watchers, the smell of hot fried pork fat still caused me to drool. I missed the sweet fragrant glutinous petit cakes, sugary short bread, treats on special occasions. We feast on pickled carrot and radish together with Banh Trung and Banh Tet (glutinous sticky rice pudding wrapped in banana leaves) every New Year without father. Tet, our equivalent of Chinese New Year, was a season full of promises. One of the superstitions was whoever is the first visitor to walk through the front door on the first day of the year would decide the luck of that year. We ate past midnight, welcoming the New Year with loud booms and cracks of red blood fire crackers.  We waited for father to be the first to walk through the front door.

Anh a straight A student, and also an inspired gymnast.  The eldest of the family, she shouldered the responsibilities and received whippings.  Approaching her 40^th Anh confessed to Ba and Ma in the years when Ba was in Cai Tao (re-education camps) Anh never attended school.  They didn’t want her there, too intelligent and too old to re-educate or brain wash.  I on the other hand was young enough to nurture into the perfect child of Uncle Ho.

Sorry, I’m known for losing the plot.  There’s so much I want to explain.  Back in the morning in August, our family was split up at Hon Dat, Rach Gia (south of Ha Tien Bay). A big group of pale looking city folks always attract attention. Bac Tu (Bac=Uncle in this case) was the accompanying adult, but my guardian was Anh. We left for the open sea on a small, motorized boat, meeting the rest of the family on the ship from a nine-year-old perspective (5X10M). The market was full of merchants and fishermen, the freshness of the morning dampened by smells of decaying vegetables and dead fish.  Homes made from discarded wood, tin, straw spilled over the river edge. The river fed these villagers, a source of life and they returned to it their waste. The sun-baked children of the fish mongers swam in these muddy waters.  I don’t remember ever eating that day. Paradise if you compare it to the Maldives, from your room you can dive directly into the sea.  The only difference maybe is your Ma waiting on your every need rather than the lovely butler.

Bac Tu was a kind man, I was filled with the excitement of adventure. Fear solely took hold of my parents. Ma’s favorite comment “when you are a mother you will understand”. The twelve hours that we were apart that day must have been hard on her. In her arms were my sickly six year old sister , and 7 year old brother. Whom we fear too little to survive the open sea. Ba was the only one who could swim. Before dusk Bac Tu tucked Anh and me under some kind of canvas at the rear of the boat “be very quiet children, we don’t want the Cong An to take us.” There was some squabble. Bac Tu had to give the boat operator his watch, an extra bribe to keep him from reporting us. The boat swayed unsteadied, burnt gas suffused with a cocktail of fish and something else dying, after a sputter the engines hummed. I must have slept, when they uncovered us it was dark. “Quickly get the children into the hull”. My mother grabbed us girls, and we found a spot to squat by her. I don’t have a smell that reminds me of my mother. I will never forget the bruising grip of her slender fingers. Ma was not about to give up on any one of us. I did not know then, this is how I want to live my life.

Ba, the boat owner and a few scruffier looking blokes were allowed on deck (To be fair, the fisherman looked kind).  Ba is five feet tall, a handsome man with a voice that rivals your surround sound stereo. He is a charismatic natural leader. 

The moonless night deepened, our vessel headed for the open sea. The boat headed west towards Dao Phu Quoc(famous for its fermented fish sauce).  At the current time, the island was a detention center for refugees and criminals like my family. These waters were highly patrolled by the Viet Cong (VC=Vietnamese communist. The thirty nine Catholic soul’s prayers must have been answered, that night was the first miracle. Their torch did not find us.

Past midnight the men on deck said their silent good bye, Phu Quoc is their last sight of home.  Upon the darkest hour before dawn the engines clanked, cracked, made a very loud noise then silence. Our hearts did not want to let go.

In the last thirty years I have compiled a few theories. Ba travelled frequently to Rach Gia , supervising the building of the escape boat.  The last vessel we were about to embark, sank hours before we got there.  This was to be my family’s fifth attempt.  The five seems to be the magic number, I attained my driver’s license on the fifth attempt. 

A lieutenant in the Vietnam War, my father’s first love has to be politics, he is a chameleon.  Ba’s first job in Australia was carpentry.   English written he had mastered in the army, but not the Australian accent.  His first boss asked him, “So Joseph, are you a carpenter?” Ba confidently said “Yes”.  “No” was not part of his verbal vocabulary. I was sure growing up there was nothing he could not do. Engineering was not one of his expertise, how can you bluff this one?  The boat and escape were organized by some opportunistic VC.  Making money from desperate people is a good business if you have the stomach for it.  Was the old engine sabotaged by these VCs or were merely given a dud. The brand-new boat was equipped with two 20L water tanks, a hammer and a handful of nails.  Passengers brought their own food. Ma brought along a multi-purpose vinyl sheet the size of a large tablecloth. A couple of wooden stakes, fastened to each side as the mask, Ba instructed the blue checked cloth stretched across the boat to form our sail.  The ocean breeze helped us pass Phu Quoc, towards Kampong Saom.  That night we became one of the thousands boat people, the sea never forgets to remind us.  Waves towered in anger and crashed unforgivingly.  We slept restlessly, amongst shouts on deck.  Ba and the men try to salvage the cheap plastic water tank, but one was swallowed by the depths and the other half the water gone.  

Day break we all crawled up on deck for air.  The flying fish, the sea gulls are we near land? We were ignorant city dwellers, are you still laughing at the dirty uneducated fishermen?

Funny, being almost swallowed by the sea, our generation craves to prove our success and distance ourselves from the tag of “boat the people”. We mortgage our lives for the water front property. Or, are we thankful for the hope and dreams the sea has given us.  I like to be pure and believe it’s the lather.

After Nine Eleven our world stopped, we were about to lose everything again.  Our conversations were full of fears, and the Muslims are going to take over the world.  We should send them all back.

Chusan, tattooed from head to toe, shaven scalp with the exception of the single long pony tail at the top of his head. Our sole gentle Muslim savior, his mother Vietnamese and father Thai. Our benefactor hid the women and children in the hull amongst his stores of dried fish and ocean treasures. A few men renew their roles as fishermen on deck. We waited as a cargo ship cruised by his fishing boat. We said our thanksgiving as it passed by, it was the other boat they captured and raped not ours. Moments ago this boat wanted our rescue, and we could not spare the room.

Anh and I were privileged to sit in the cabin as we sailed into Bangkok.  The evening was lit by a thousand city lights.  The vessel swayed quietly, the occasional loud whisper and splashing of women and children being thrown overboard broke the quiet.  The beach buzzing mosquitoes had a feast on the new boat load of refugees.  That night we slept restlessly in our sticky wet clothes under the attack of the local insect population.  We were anxious and happy.

Dawn, we voted to walk along the beach.  Along the way we exchanged one of our hats for the instruction that we must walk along the river for help. 

There were parts where there was no choice but to wade through waist deep crocodile infested waters, unknown to these educated city dwellers at the time. We rested when we could, so some of the young people attempted to pick coconuts. In one of these stops two men welcome us to the new land with guns.  Luckily one of the lenses from Ba’s glasses fell out, or they would take that as well to bar the clothes on our back.  I vaguely remember the men asking the women to beg for our lives.  Later, we became re-acquainted with these Thai men in the tiny village, after weeks of our host finding reasons to keep us hostage hoping to bleed gold.

I wonder what stories have been told to these Thais about us.  I’ve watched a documentary on the Discovery Channel, these poor Thai Islanders make their living in piracy.  I understand the mayor hoped to gain gold, but she was still a gracious and generous host.  Frankly I remember Ma was a little jealous of the sarong wearing translator.  Ba was the only one who could converse with her in American English. 

We had two blissful weeks of salt air, and sweet tangerines, the island was full of these beautiful trees which reminded me of home. It was a happy time, even Anh had a young handsome admirer who threw sweets at her every chance he got. I had dreamt he was the son of the mayor or some rich heir.  My little brother may have lost his first baby tooth eating one of his sweets.  Each family claimed their spot on the wharf; sheltered by three walls we had a view of the beach and gentle swaying palms.  We bathe in the village and defecate amongst the palms, hoping always when nature calls, we don’t encounter too many floaters.  

July 24, 2010

Last night I came home drained from attending a funeral for a lady I’ve known only for a weekend a few years ago through a mutual friend.  My husband found it strange that I wanted to do this.  I wanted her family to know she had made an impression on my life. A lady through it all re-invented herself for every adversity, I don’t even know her. Only through the eyes of her family and friends, they reminded me of this warrior who fought cancer for 16 years and never gave up. 

She was an unexpected gift. I couldn’t understand why I was so moved. I now understand that Shuchi reminds me of the heroes in my life, my Ma and Ba.

The next destination was not so romantic.  The whole village came to send us off, including the men who robbed us.  I wondered if they thought all Thai must look alike to us?  We arrived at our new camp with a hostile reception.  They don’t want us under the same roof. They were the ones we could not spare the room on Chusan’s fishing vessel.

The guards help our group to settle in a more run-down house further away. Ma opens our treasured possession, the tablecloth to claim our family boundary in the house. It was in the middle of a barren jungle; even the core of the tree seems dry.  My brother lost his second tooth before we left for Song La, one of the biggest refugee camps in SE Asia.

I don’t understand why but I felt the most lonely and sad here. Songla consisted of large stretches of beach along which were built raised sheltered platforms adjacent to the beach.  There were thousands here, the half way house to a new ray of hope was a white American priest handing out a $10 US note to each new arriving family to SongLa.  Our days consist of lining up for food, Anh shouldering a lot of these responsibilities; instant noodles are such a treat.  We found a plastic bag on the beach once; Tung and I made an ok kite out of it.  The only Buddhist on our boat who had to put up with all the Hail Maries, taught me how to make a sand castle by dripping wet sand from my closed fist.

My body began to change on the beach, was Ma too distracted to notice this.  I was bathing topless on the beach like my younger siblings.  People stopped and stared; I was then allowed to use a bathing cubicle from the neighbouring campers after that. And yes the famous table cloth was hung up in an attempt to give my family some privacy.  Some nights I roam the camps looking for my order sister.  Her friends preferred her without me for a tail.  Chapel was nice, but even there I did not find solace.  I knew Ma was busy with my younger siblings. Ba was busy taking over a little kiosk with the money given to him from a friend in the States, which he insisted on returning with interest.  We were in SongLa for 4 weeks when Australia accepted our applications. Tung lost another tooth.

Panatnikhom Transit Center was a prison, more or less.  Our shelters are groups of four concrete houses facing each other without an existing front wall.  Each block had their own toilet, functioning or not at least there were no surprises. The Vietnamese camp was separated from the Cambodian camps by a man-made canal.  We were not to venture over there.  Anh and her best friend took me there anyway.

Going through puberty here is an environment I hope I can protect my daughter from. With all the uncertainty, I don’t remember growing into a woman with any kind of grace but unwanted attention from the opposite sex.  I was constantly stalked by a young boy a few years older. But there were great days Ba with what spare money he made in SongLa treated us to the Thai version of Pho.  The Thai have a sweet tooth, they also have sugar on the table next to the nuoc mam and chili paste instead of just the salt and pepper.  I will always be grateful to the Thai, the aromas of coconut, lemon grass, limes and hot chilies always make the mouth water.  I remember a visit from a missionary family, or mainly their young daughter who had long beautiful blonde hair.  To us she was an angel.  The children followed her everywhere trying to feel her hair, she brought us hope from the new land.

August 13, 2010

A cloud of depression will not leave me, I long for the intimacy that for the last year has been chased away.  My older sister declared war against the family she grew up with.  A customer of mine calls it post traumatic disorder syndrome (PTDS) unique to the Vietnam War.  The symptoms consist of denial, depression, rage, boredom and so on.  I pride myself on being able to read people; I did not see this coming.  On Fathers’ Day dinner, and the morning of my father’s birth day August 31^st Anh severed all ties with the Nguyen family.  Ba is a gifted communicator who could not penetrate the wall of rage my elder sister had erected.  The words in the email won’t be transcript here, it’s undignified.  I cannot begin to comprehend how he feels, it took months before he can speak her name.  “I’ve lost my country, imprisoned and my identity stolen by the Viet Cong.  I arrived in Australia empty handed but for my wife and four children. I almost lost a son to suicide…  Had I known, I would have fed them poison when the Americans abandoned us.”

We thought Panatnikhom was a concrete prison but the last transit to Australia was definitely a high secure prison.  Hundreds of people were locked in together in a large building. The only sunlight was through barred windows.  We used the table cloth to sleep on, just enough for our family of six. We slept holding on to our possession, our heart.  It was supposed to be for one week, then two.  Hope dissipated, anywhere you moved there were feet, and our 10 by 4 boat in the middle of the ocean had more promise.  I don’t remember what we ate, I just remember the humiliating public baths. An auntie told me to bathe with all my clothes on because they were staring.  Almost a month in and the health inspection day arrived, my brother and I had contracted chicken pocks. “No worries Ong Thiem(Ba), let my daughter and son take the examination for your kids. I’m sure the white nurse won’t be able to tell the difference” an uncle consoled my father.  My first white lie, it brought our family hope.

A couple of years ago my family flew Thai Airways on a short holiday. They give the ladies orchids, but not the little copper bell anymore.  I remember my year seven English teacher reading aloud to the class, an essay I wrote on the experience of the first time ever flying.  Looking back I don’t think she was complementing me on an excellent piece of literature, but perhaps more out of pity. Just today, forgetting all reasons for avoiding heart disease, I allowed lumps of butter to melt deliciously in my mouth. They served us real Caucasian food like bread, butter and jam on the flight from Bangkok to Sydney.  The Stuarts and other passengers stared and whispered.  I was fully still conscious of my conspiracy of lying to the Australian Embassy.  Maybe it was the chicken pox, maybe the way we were dressed, possibly because we were another load of boat people.

Joy was in my heart as I slept the first night in Easthill Hostel (now home for the military and their family).  With the ringing in my ears from the flight, the shiny little copper bell hanging on the curtain rod above my bed I slept soundly without a dream. 

Ice cream with red and green jelly was served every Friday night, lamb roast, and beef stakes. The Australian people accommodated us.  But we still craved the food of our homeland.  We frequent the markets, bring odds and ends to have parties in our room.  Instant noodles made with hot water from the tap, not the best but it eased the cravings. There were regular raids to confiscate utensils, since cooking was forbidden in our rooms. They were good times, we just never appreciated it enough. I try to cook a roast for the children once a month as a treat. As our Smeg appliance does not fall apart on us every few months.

I generally cook out of necessity, essentially feeding the growing children is fairly important. After thorough observation of events in my life, everything revolves around food, the circle of life or the cycle of food.  Think about it, the fertilizer we feed the earth ultimately ends up on our plate.  Sharing a meal together can break or make any relationship.  

This weekend I had made extra efforts to enjoy food with friends. Some of these relationships are new and some reinvented.  I connected with an eight week due expectant mother. Toddler in toll, she pours her heart into a floury batter. Madame refuses to sit, but prefers to slave over the oven for a couple dozen cup cakes for thirty people. It was a last minute, three hour notice for the poker night. When I ate my half of the slightly dehydrated mini cup cake, my respect for her overflowed. 

No disregard to the ones who sat with their red wine in hand. The people, who find everything in the kitchen foreign, accept a knife and folk. They are the brave souls that had to consume what the cook dished up.  These intelligent career people, who have not figured out the art of Googling a recipe, or is it performance anxiety?  In the end everybody has a role.  The crappy food has to be made, and someone has to eat it.  How can a bond so strong be broken? It is a bonus we get to share the laughs despites our inadequacies. The fake jewelry tale I have to leave for another day, there is a risk of destroying the current positive mood.

When did it become easy to burn two thousand dollars on a designer bag?  It started with that fake Gucci bag, and you are mistaken for Japanese descent rather than Vietnamese.  A wise mate of mine said “no matter how superficial a person is, they are still capable of love Tram”.  I had consulted her regarding a close friend of such description.  I am beginning to understand, for some of us it’s better to forget. It is easier to bury our sad history.  I thrive on drama. My family has definitely not come from a long line of blue blood, but the possibility of my great grandchildren becoming the Prime Minister of Australia is not impossible. My grandchildren will be colourful, or according to Russell Peters either of Chinese or Indian descent or both.  New immigrants, Christian best friend is a half Indian and a half Austrian, Kieren represents half the continents.  Until dementia kicks in, this boat person story will be retold whenever possible.

I have to confess in a moment of despair I am guilty of maxing out the Amex on designer gear.  The act however did not fill the emptiness I tried to buy. With all the education and wisdom my parents instilled, I did not see it coming. For more than three years my mother-in-law gambled her sons’ savings, her daughters spared. It’s just easier for me to box it under PTDS. 

Putting these words on paper seems a gross violation of trust when it comes to my husband’s family. It is easier to accept your own family failures and betray them, but not someone else’s? It feels permanent, the burning of bridges.  Ironic since with today’s technology, a concrete bridge probably outlives the stress of any fires.  We can no longer rely on nature to build these bonds for us, it simply requires hard work. We should trust in the manmade materials to build all the manmade bridges, to last generations.  I understand without money we cannot build, it’s hard for anyone not to be amour with its shining prestige.  But, if we let the dollar become the centre, it will consume us.  We are surrounded by addictions; alcohol, drugs, gambling, shopping, sex, boredom.  Everything is for sale at a price, when you are in the West its Heroin and in the Eastern suburbs Amphetamines.  The air is free, the Sun is free, and a conversation costs nothing.

At East hills Primary I attended year three, where I had more than a few interesting experiences.  Curious, an English teacher tried to match me up with an older boy. He might have been a great catch being a wiz with the Cubic Cube.  Still Ba would have been mortified.  I was usually on the side line watching other kids’ jump ropes or play an Aussie game called Hand Ball. Startled from my day dreams, a young boy had grabbed and planted one on my cheek.  The other children laughed, and I felt ashamed. It could have been one of those nostalgic childhood memories, but it only resonates in my years as a young adult in University, the awkwardness with the opposite sex.

October 21, 2010

I am shattered at the number of my friends who have become statistics. They are a part of the two in three marriages ending in divorce.  What is more than fifteen years of life together worth?  I truly believe when you are compassionate, you are capable of loving more than one person.  Desire is so addictive and satisfying, but it comes at a price. Why are these men, whom I had total respect for willing to trade their wives and children for an affair.  Is it ego, testosterone or loneliness? The hurt is an uncontrollable ripple.  I’ve said it a million times out of insecurities to my husband “if you ever have an affair, I will have one too and I don’t think our marriage will survive”.  With these new events, I’m not so self assured.  If this had happened to my Ma, I would want her to forgive Ba.  Why break up a family, it has always been my first priority.  I just want my fun loving friends back. I know this is very naïve, but I’m honestly just selfish.  I cannot imagine hurting my children and Khanh in this way, I know I’m very lucky.

After a few months also in Easthills Hostels, my father found a job as a carpenter after door knocking from one factory to another.  I don’t remember Ba ever saying “no” to anyone, from his limited English when his employer asks, “are you a carpenter Joseph?” he simply answers as always “yes, I do everything!”.  We moved to a rental house in Baulkham hills; a lovely Australian family helped us settle. We will never forget their generosity, Mr. and Mrs. Darcy.  Ba would commute by foot 10 km on Windsor Road to work, until his kind boss found out and picked him up every day.  The same boss who found out Ba was not a carpenter, what carpenter has nice soft hands.  Soon Ba Ma saved enough to buy our own family car, we were in heaven. We had everything, a car, a TV and a stereo cassette player.  Mrs. Darcy found Ma a job in a chicken factory, my gorgeous mother was picked on endlessly.  They taunt her “you’re not married, where is your ring?” Ba couldn’t afford to replace the one those pirates took where we first landed in Thailand.  Her work mates would steal her shoes, the ones given to her from the sisters at St. Vinnies.  Ma would come home crying, her feet bare and swollen.  But Ma would turn up to work the next day.  Luck changed when Ma succeeded in applying for a job as mail sorter at Australia Post.  That Christmas Ma brought the girls dresses from David Jones, the most expensive and sophisticated shop according to Ma.  I don’t remember Ma ever spends anything on herself.  Even with the tea money from working overtime, Ma saved it to buy us treats like tins of shortbreads or Arnold’s Biscuits.  The only extravagant thing Ma brought for herself was a second-hand tape recorder and player, in the later years she upgraded to a Walkman!!!

Mr. and Mrs. Darcy enrolled us in whichever school that was willing to take us.  Anh was enrolled in Gilroy College, I in Baulkham hills public, Tung and Thao in the nearby Catholic School I can’t recall.  It was very lonely, and I missed the protective company of my older sister and younger siblings.  The only subject I understood was mathematics. At lunch time I ate my cold sandwiches in solitude by a beautiful native tree.  Finally, another lonely English kid, also an outcast, befriended me. It was ok for a while until she decided to tell my classmates after having dinner with my family “these people eat leaves from their garden” (Vietnamese Herbs) hoping to gain some popularity by making fun of the Vietnamese kid.  I thank God to this day that eighty percent of the time I did not understand their taunts, and all the mean words tossed my way.  Grade four was a tough year but I’ve had it easy compared to my little sister. Recently she described how she was bullied and bashed by a boy twice her size. Her teacher knowingly ignored the bullying and put Thao in detention for lying and even kept her back a year.  

Finally like the rest of my brothers and sisters I was accepted at St. Monica, a Catholic School for years 5 and 6.  Year 7, I was to join Anh at Gilroy College.

December 25, 2010

Last night Khanh’s brother n law Paul family were over from the United Kingdom. Paul had an unexpected surprise visit from his mum, a sweet reunion.

This year the Nguyen family is whole again.  Anh had arrived at some reconciliation with Ba Ma. 

Turning 40 is becoming uneventful after all, and my life has evolved a full circle.

My Speech

I want to thank Ma for being an inspiration for each and every of the last 40 years.  Thanking my beautiful sisters for forgiving all of my faults. As for the women who came to share this difficult time in my fifth decade, you are sisters to me.  Liz, you represent the first generation of women in our family, and it shows a bright future.  You are smarter than the sum of us. Not forgetting my gorgeous daughter Isabella, mummy does not tell you what a clever and responsible girl you are.

So after stumbling around for the last 40 years, I’ve discovered how lucky I am, so thank you.  So here’s to me.