Thirteen years ago today my mum died. It all feels like a lifetime ago, and actually I can't really remember what life looked and felt like with her in it. I wish I had been given the chance to get to know her, to appreciate her and, of course, I would do anything to thank her for all the things I can now see she did for me and my sister, and all the little ways in which she showed us that she loved us.
It's Glastonbury weekend, and I spot one of those online quizzes: What Sort of Festival-Goer Are You? The sort who doesn't go to Festivals, I think, as I turn on the TV. It's Wimbledon fortnight too, which, here in Northern Ireland, means the end of the school year, with children, teenagers and exhausted teachers rejoicing or collapsing in a heap.
There's something about paper. Not the crisp-sheet-of-A4-fresh-from-the-printer kind of paper, but the slightly crumpled, much-read kind that carries precious words or a faded picture of someone no longer part of our lives, but who once meant everything. The kind of paper that dreams and memories and even history are made of.