Our first Airbnb booking arrives this afternoon; my husband is strimming the back garden and I am on the phone to my sister.

I’M thinking of doing Airbnb. I tell a friend.

If you’re a maker of any sort, as I am, you’ll know that your ego is at least partially dependent upon your ability to sell what you make. 

Driving towards Cork Airport to catch a flight, “I feel a bit odd,” my husband says.

Weekly diary with Aida Austin

Never having had a menopause herself because she “had to have the whole blasted contraption whipped out at 40,” my mother is curious to hear about mine. “So,” she says on the phone, “how’s it going? Are you still boiling to death?”

The first time we revisit England after moving to Ireland, we get stuck in weekend traffic going west out of London.

Last summer in Lefkada, I took a photograph of a pair of window shutters; double-panel, hardwood, painted palest sunbleached olive.

Aida Austin illustrates how unpredictable and yet comical travelling can be once the plans are out of your hands.

Monday morning and I’m at home, returning a Whatsapp call from my mother that kept dropping earlier this morning.