I didn’t have learning how to inject insulin into a dog on my To Do list for staycation week, but hey: I’m clearly not in control of life’s dramatic twists and turns this year.
Alby the Miniature Schnauzer turned 10 this month, so when she started leaving puddles on the floor shortly after her birthday I wasn’t altogether surprised, but I didn’t expect our trip to the vet to garner this pile of accessories:
• a VetPen for administering insulin • an insulin cartridge • a box of needles • several information booklets and medication diaries and • our very own personal sharps bin
The staff at our local vet couldn’t have been more helpful, answering every little question we had and patiently working through all the elements of our new lifestyle of administering two injections per day on a strict 12-hour schedule. How to change the insulin cartridge, how to get the air out of the cartridge before use, how to administer the correct amount, what to do if she doesn’t eat enough before her injection is due, which diabetic food to switch her onto, what treats she can have now (none, sorry Alby!). What to do if she “has a hypo” aka her blood sugar goes too low (rub honey on her gums and get her to the vet asap).
This is the bit that scares me the most.
When I travelled to pick up my first Schnauzer, Mister Benji, in 2008, I spent the entire train journey giving myself a stern talking to. Echoes of my parents telling me off for not spending enough time with my very dull and not at all affectionate rabbit Bugs as a teen reverberated as I solemnly vowed to take the very best care of my new pup. I was ready. I’d wanted a dog my whole life and it was time. I knew I could do it. I decided to really enjoy the journey by making myself think ahead to the inevitable sad future where I would have to say goodbye to him, and I promised myself and him that I would see it through, whatever happened. And I did. Right to his last moments.
Forever love x
Benji and I enjoyed 14 very happy years together, and he was only briefly pissed off when, aged 7, he was required to welcome a new friend into the home: baby Alby. They were best friends pretty much immediately, cuddling up together, wrestling and chasing. It was so sweet.
Day 2 of living together: can you even spot the puppy?
I worried when Alby became an only dog that she wouldn’t know what to do with herself, but she was almost offensively, immediately, fine. Stretching out in Benji’s spot on the bed, expanding to fill the hole he left in our lives. Gotta love that ability to live in the moment.
When we invited Luna to come and live with us six months later, I hoped – and expected – the same best friend situation to blossom. It did not. Luna was given a very cold shoulder for about three months, after which Alby started to slowly relent and let her sit close by.
The grumpface of a Schnauzer cannot be matched. She’s smiling inside.
Three years on they’re good pals, but I now appreciate what a special bond these two had. Awwwwwwwww:
As we embark on this new, strict, routine, I admit I am feeling the weight of responsibility like never before. It’s not that I would ever forget to give Alby her insulin, or to make sure she’s eaten beforehand, or to keep cartridges and needles stocked up. That’s all fine. It’s the risk of the hypo that keeps me waking up to check on her through the night, and bothering her during the day. She’s a pretty snoozy dog. Is she feeling poorly, or is this just another normal nap?
I’ll keep a pot of honey on every floor of the house, just in case. And hopefully that beautiful grumpy face won’t mind me staring at her even more than usual.
Onwards we go.
It’s your turn to tell me how great your pet/s is/was/were – see you in the comments x
And please send healthy wishes for the brave girl.
My new Penfriend album “House Of Stories” is available NOW on super limited vinyl, CDs and KiT hybrid digital albums, with accompanying tees, hoodies and books. Music fans got it to #2 in the Official UK Independent Album Chart in April 2025. Bonkers!
Join The Correspondent’s Clubon Patreon to receive quarterly bundles of art and members-only music plus extra perks + immediate access to my entire digital archive (digital and analogue memberships available)
If you’re happy with the way you already listen to music, you don’t need this.
If you love sitting down to savour the sweet, sweet sounds of your favourite records with your feet up, indulgently sipping whiskey or tea or Vimto, if you enjoy the satisfying crackle as you lower the needle to listen to side two…if you’re perfectly happy with this already very beautiful experience – you don’t need this.
If you love CDs, the portability, the superb sound quality, the sheer amount of them that you can collect without making your bookshelves snap under the weight, you don’t need this.
You’re still here? Fine, I’ll tell you the whole story.
About a year and a half ago, an intriguing package arrived at my house, addressed to my husband Tim. I noticed it had Korean writing on it, and we were due to travel to Seoul two months later. So I wondered what on earth he was planning.
Turns out it was a coincidence. It was a box full of KiTalbums, sent to show off this new format to people working in music. I was thrilled and I immediately nicked one of the albums to try it out – and that’s how I first listened to K-pop!
KiT is a hybrid digital format, so it comes in a chunky box with fun extras like a booklet, photo cards, maybe some stickers and even a badge. And they all come with instructions and a little chain so you can wear it on your backpack. That’s a thing in Korea.
A KiTalbum connects to your phone through U-NFC technology. You just hold it to your microphone port and press a button. And it’s not just for music: there’s a tab for images, a tab for videos and a community tab.
Look – a little record player!
As well as including all of my music videos for “House of Stories”, I added two extra folders. One for the 21 track demos and rarities collection and another one for the album podumentary I made. If I want to, I can keep adding more things to this release. How cool is that?
From a music lover’s perspective, this is a portable immersive listening experience with high quality audio, exclusive content and a direct link to artists and other fans.
From an artist’s perspective, it’s an invitation to create that immersive world for your supporters, storytelling through music, video, text and images.
Can you see now why I was so excited when I first held one in my hands?
Muzlive started producing KiTalbums for K-pop labels in 2017. Now they want to branch out into the US and the UK. I was very keen to be part of that, so my latest album “House of Stories” ended up being the third album ever to be released on KiT in the UK.
It’s a very cool feeling to have released one of the first few English language albums on this format alongside one of my all time favourite albums. Me and Alanis, just hanging out there. We could be friends…
When Tim and I went to Seoul last May, we met up with Joe, the innovator behind KiT and founder of Muzlive and Eric, his Chief Operating Officer. We talked long into the night about our enthusiasm for these little boxes, and Tim and I vowed to try and help.
I appreciate forward-thinking ideas, good design and hard graft. I would be nowhere in my music career if I wasn’t the sort of person who kept pushing my own ideas through to completion, and I was immediately impressed by Joe’s vision and tenacity. He really wants this format to improve the lives of music lovers and music makers and I am so on board with that.
I just see so much potential in KiTalbums, so last month I accepted Joe’s offer to officially help them spread the word in the UK.
I don’t take this lightly. Integrity is everything to me. After building up my reputation on and offline for the past 20 + years, I will only ever back people and products I truly believe in.
So if you’re an artist, a manager or a record label person and you’re interested in finding out more about making your own KiTalbum, drop me an email at laura @ muzlive.com. I’d love to talk to you.
You can find out more about how this format works at www.kitbetter.com and I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments: positive, negative or downright grumpy!
I’ll answer any questions you’ve got, but the very best way to really get to grips with a KiTalbum is to try one.
My new Penfriend album “House Of Stories” is available NOW on super limited vinyl, CDs and KiT hybrid digital albums, with accompanying tees, hoodies and books. Music fans got it to #2 in the Official UK Independent Album Chart in April 2025. Bonkers!
Join The Correspondent’s Clubon Patreon to receive quarterly bundles of art and members-only music plus extra perks + immediate access to my entire digital archive (digital and analogue memberships available)
What are you currently putting off? How can you simplify the process to make a version of your ideal outcome possible?
(I’ll explain the t-shirt modelling photos at the end…)
I had a lovely, nerdy chat with Katie Lee / KJ Lyttleton last week about how I manage my big email list, grown over the past 16 years, and how I keep my Substack subscribers (mostly) separate. Katie writes brilliant books, and brilliant blog posts, and in my opinion the people who read her books would love her blog posts, and vice versa, though maybe I’m just biased because I’ve been in touch with her since Twitter was decent (so, at least 15 years, maybe more like 18 – HOLY SHIT).
So we talked about that sort of thing for a while, and I firmly encouraged her to do nice fun things like make an unboxing video for her novels, which she did1, which nudged me to make an unboxing video for a new instrument that arrived here this week.
It’s been a weird few months here: I released my sixth solo album in April, scheduled in a little energy slump and a holiday and then got myself back up and running again, just in time to see my Gran for one last time before she (very peacefully) died. And then a sort of unravelling took place: a couple of weird, foggy months, and a gradual clearing to the point where I found myself finally able to sit down and do some actual work i.e. stuff that’s on my To Do list not all the other things I’d been packing those foggy months with i.e. gardening, reorganising every room, learning how to use an MPC from scratch, learning synthesis, etc etc.
Before all this – ** she gesticulates wildly ** – I’d planned to get right back into my YouTube-ing post-album release. From first enthusiastically sharing vlogs on the platform in 2007 (filmed on tape so a pause for some appreciative self-applause for actually getting so much edited), my energy and efforts petered out over time to the point where I was only using my channel to upload music videos and the occasional behind the scenes video. And that irked me so much, because I started making videos before I was making my own music, and I ran my own one-woman production company in London as my main freelance hustle for nearly 10 years before DSLRs took over and I decided to take a break and do other things for a bit.
Giving up on making and sharing videos hurt me. It was a big, ongoing regret. And it annoyed the shit out of me whenever I thought about it, because I couldn’t blame anyone but myself. Clearly, I was busy doing other things like making albums and touring alongside trying to stay afloat through freelancing, but the heart wants what the heart wants, and I’ve never been any good at being realistic with time.
When I ended my first solo project She Makes War in 2019 and started planning my next one, Penfriend, I decided it was time to stop regretting. I would make the podcast I’d been thinking about for years, I would make a new YouTube channel, and I would actually put videos up there on a regular basis. And I bloody did it! For ages!
Of course now, blinking into the light as the trails of fog melt around me, I cannot fathom how I managed to make all that stuff.
Time has been acting weird recently, and because I was focusing on making and releasing my album “House Of Stories” – available on vinyl, CD and KiT box set direct from yours truly – from last May to this April, shifting from that single, big, long-term goal to my previous relentless weekly goals would have been quite a jump even if everything else had stayed calm.
Every time I thought about all the video footage that sits unedited on my collection of hard drives, or looked at my ideas list, I felt overwhelmed. I couldn’t imagine ever finishing a video and clicking the “upload” button. I think that’s why I made such a point of writing a blog post every week. I had to prove to myself I could still do things.
On Monday, inspired by talking to Katie and watching her unboxing video, and genuinely excited to unbox a brand new instrument called “Orchid”, I said “fuck it” and turned my camera on. I noodled around with the fun new thing, chucked the footage onto my computer, edited it in a couple of hours and uploaded it.
No overthinking, just action. Sometimes it really is that simple.
And here I am again, writing to you aka getting the fuck on with that as well.
A gentle pat on the back for us both.
Thanks for reading. Now go and do your thing!
Love, Laura xxx
PS the t-shirt modelling photos are another thing I’ve been putting off. Apply basic makeup, stand in garden wearing cool new tee design, take self portrait with phone. Easy. Nope. Not easy. It took me a week to get around to it. But I did it! And now they are for sale here.
My new Penfriend album “House Of Stories” is available NOW on super limited vinyl, CDs and KiT hybrid digital albums, with accompanying tees, hoodies and books. Music fans got it to #2 in the Official UK Independent Album Chart in April 2025. Bonkers!
Join The Correspondent’s Clubon Patreon to receive quarterly bundles of art and members-only music plus extra perks + immediate access to my entire digital archive (digital and analogue memberships available)
Snug in my hand, the coffee cup is still warm. The last dregs of bittersweet liquid lie waiting for me to tip them into my mouth, but I’m absent-minded. I feel relaxed, despite the early hour, and my lack of plans for the day ahead. I feel…fine.
So why such violent thoughts?
In my fantasy, my morning drink flies through the air in slow motion. Coffee explodes against the wall, splashing out in all directions, syrupy globs finding far flung homes as the cup disintegrates into chunks and chips and a spray of fine powder.
Cut to me on my hands and knees, dustpan and brush in hand, cleaning up my own mess.
I always will have to clean up my own mess. It really takes the fun out of things.
For someone who spends a small but decent amount of time idly wondering what would happen if I threw this cup against that wall, or dropped this glass on that floor, I am not a person who smashes things.
OK, I’m not a person who smashes things often. I have smashed things, two or three things, over the years, and they were always my things. In my (over)reaction to a situation concerning another (intensely shitty) person, I have only ever destroyed my own property. A boombox, kicked down the stairs. A remote control thrown at the wall. Maybe it was only two things.
I wanted to punch a wall once, but I stopped myself just in time. It’s one thing to break your things, another to break yourself.
The first time I watched Robin Ince perform his brilliant blend of intellectual conversation and observational comedy was at The Tobacco Factory in Bristol in 2017. The show was called “Pragmatic Insanity”, and he had invited me to perform a song. I can’t remember what I played, but I distinctly remember Robin talking on stage about how, when you’re holding someone’s baby and your brain shows you an image of you dropping them, this doesn’t mean you’re a terrible person who wants to hurt a baby. It means you know not to do that.
When I idly picture myself throwing a coffee cup against a wall, is it just a reminder to myself that I’m doing ok?
“Look”, my subconscious says, “you could be doing this – but you’re not! Well done. You’re not smashing up your life or scaring your loved ones. You’re holding it together, even though there are way too many things to juggle. Here’s what you could be like, and you’re much better than that. Go you!”
Or is it a warning – this sort of thing could be next?
The two recurring fantasies I’ve had over the years are:
1. letting go of the handrail at the top of the stairs and, ever-so-gently letting myself crumple. What would happen? Would it hurt? Would I actually even fall? (I have a weird fear of falling down the stairs, so this is a peculiar one I’ll admit).
During past times of peak stress and sadness I have connected this idea with craving a quiet, clean room with nothing in it, somewhere I can rest and no-one can ask anything of me.
2. standing in the kitchen, calmly and systematically going through each cupboard, smashing every single piece of crockery on the floor with a slight smile on my face.
To be clear: when I’m thinking these thoughts, no part of me thinks I’m going to do them. But they’re there. And they do keep coming back.
A few weeks ago I told my husband I’d been having the smash-the-crockery fantasy again, and he cheerfully informed me about “smash rooms”, also known as “rage rooms” and “anger rooms”.
What? You can go somewhere and pay to smash stuff up in a safe environment? So it’s not just me!
That really cheered me up. In my enthusiasm, I found a “smash room” not far from home, and of course immediately started thinking about the potential for a very fun slow motion music video.
Must I always make every fun new thing into a project? Yes, yes I must.
A few weeks on, I’m not feeling smashy any more. I haven’t been to a “smash room” yet, and perhaps I never will. Perhaps just knowing that I could easily go and do some smashing outside the home has reduced the urge.
More likely it’s all the stupid exercise, spending time outside and eating healthy food that I’ve been doing. Bah.
Either way, we’re all weird, but we’re not all completely different in our weirdness. The dark urges I only ever confessed to my beloved are so NOT unusual that a number people have gone into business to support them. A 3-second internet search brings up three separate brands running these places in the UK alone.
We’re not as unique as we think. And I find that comforting.
My new Penfriend album “House Of Stories” is available NOW on super limited vinyl, CDs and KiT hybrid digital albums, with accompanying tees, hoodies and books. Music fans got it to #2 in the Official UK Independent Album Chart in April 2025. Bonkers!
Join The Correspondent’s Clubon Patreon to receive quarterly bundles of art and members-only music plus extra perks + immediate access to my entire digital archive (digital and analogue memberships available)
“House Of Stories” gatefold artwork by Jessica Wild, featuring beloved items and stories contributed by 17 beautiful humans x
How not to release an album in 2025:
1. Spend four months building up to release day with thoughtful emails, regular music video premieres and ads (I even did TikTok consistently for the first time!)
2. Release album
3. Fulfil music and merch items to generous fans around the globe
4. Disappear
Four weeks after my sixth solo album and second Penfriend album “House Of Stories” flew off on its beautiful wings around the world, I got the phone call I’d been dreading for the past three years of hospital visits.
Julia, my 95-year old Gran, died in her sleep six days after our last lunch together in her care home bedroom: cheese sandwiches cut into triangles, a Jammie Dodger each plus a bowl of vanilla ice cream for her.
I had long expected it would be bad, but I couldn’t have imagined the particular ways that I would feel her loss in the weeks after that sad call. Someone who was there for my entire life was suddenly gone. The woman who must have celebrated the news of my Mum’s pregnancy, caring about the idea of me even before I entered the world, screaming.
Random thoughts besieged me. I suddenly worried about what would happen to her stories. Nothing was ever written down or recorded. She is un-Google-able. I don’t want this woman to disappear: is that because I’m afraid of doing the same?
She led an extraordinary life: living on the canals, walking beside Tommy the horse as he pulled the boat along the water, feeling proud when her Dad let her steer. Moving into a small house on land in her teen years, looking after her brothers and sisters and then leaving to start her own family. Travelling to Hong Kong, Malaya (as it was known when she was there) and Cyprus with my Grandad. She glowed when she talked about those days, and over the last few years whenever conversation lulled I would ask her to tell me about it all again, and she would smile.
Years ago I suggested making audio recordings of us talking, but she wasn’t really up for it. I wish she’d said yes, but it’s not something to force on someone. Not everything has to last forever, and our stories can live on in the memories of our loved ones. Great in theory, but I suddenly felt the burden of remembering, and knew I would do a poor job, and felt like a failure.
Of my four grandparents, I’ve only ever properly known my grandmothers – they both outlived their husbands by 30+ years, and my Grandad Chris died when I was 9. I was always impressed and admiring of their adventurous natures, strength, toughness and stoicism. I don’t think they met many times, living in different countries with family members strewn far and wide, but I hope they got on well.
I dedicated my 2018 She Makes War album “Brace For Impact” to “my inspiring grandmothers Constance Kidd and Julia Briggs. Thank you for always encouraging adventure”.
My Gran looked pleased when I showed her that. Unfortunately Nana had already passed, but I did get the chance to thank her for everything before she did. And I thanked my Gran, too.
I wrote this song the day after my Nana, Constance, died:
Three weeks ago today I stood up and talked at Gran’s funeral about the butterfly effect: marvelling at how if even one small event had happened differently in her early life, my Mum, me, my sister and brother and their children would not exist.
She always enjoyed telling me about her first fiancé, the one she had to let down when she met my Grandad in a hospital ward and they fell in love. He had yellow fever, she was a nursing auxiliary. It sounds like a scene from a film. She wasn’t mean about anyone, I think she told and retold the tale as an example of trusting your instincts. And when I think of her stories now, I notice for the first time the spaces she left for me to draw my own conclusions, learn my own lessons.
My Gran never had wifi – in the 90’s she called my Mum to warn her that “The Internet” was a dangerous place and we shouldn’t be going on there – so she never shared her thoughts and experiences in the ways I’ve been doing for the past 20 years. As far as I know she never kept a diary either. For my entire childhood she didn’t talk much about her start in life; embarrassed to have left school aged 12 to start work, she often apologised for her handwriting and spelling in the letters we exchanged. I’m glad I was able to encourage more storytelling from her in the last decade at least.
When I chose the name “House Of Stories” for my latest album, I immediately thought of Gran’s house in Runcorn. She moved there in 1991, and as my family unit was so nomadic as I was growing up, it’s the only family home containing childhood memories that I still have physical access to. I vividly remember rollerskating in the back yard after Gran bought my sister and I skates from the car boot sale, redirecting my penpal letters to her address when we went to stay for a few weeks in the summer holidays, cuddling up under fluffy blankets on the sofa.
Later I stayed over on tour a few times; sitting up late one night talking to my tour buddy, we fell silent to watch a spider slowly spin a web from the ceiling right the way down to the floor, inches from my face.
It’s weird the things that stay with you.
Eventually there’s a moment when we realise we’re the grownups now, and we can (try to) have a say in how things are done. It’s tricky in family situations where roles seem set in stone, but I feel good about how I was able to show up for my Gran and my parents in the hard times, and I’m grateful for that last cosy lunch date.
If she knew how much her loss had knocked me sideways, I can just hear what she’d say to me:
“Oh ‘eck, what a fuss.”
But if I’d managed to bounce right back she might have been rather insulted.
“I have so much I want to make all the time, and it’s always frustrating that I can’t make all of it. For a while I haven’t felt able to make any of it. But I’m starting to believe that I might be able to make some of it very soon. And that’s a huge improvement.”
I had such plans for post-album 2025, and I’m going to start making them happen.
PS I’ll write more about this part of the “House Of Stories” project in coming weeks, but 17 beautiful humans contributed meaningful objects and accompanying stories to create the gatefold artwork, and you can read those here: https://penfriend.rocks/basement
My new Penfriend album “House Of Stories” is available NOW on super limited vinyl, CDs and KiT hybrid digital albums, with accompanying tees, hoodies and books. Music fans got it to #2 in the Official UK Independent Album Chart in April 2025. Bonkers!
Join The Correspondent’s Clubon Patreon to receive quarterly bundles of art and members-only music plus extra perks + immediate access to my entire digital archive (digital and analogue memberships available)
Alby is on edge. Anxious. Jittery. It’s week 5 of our neighbours having their floors ripped out and replaced. The banging is loud. The grinding of the drill, a deep, foundational shaking, cuts through everyone. Our neighbours are the best, and it’s all FINE, but it’s also hot and it’s loud and I’m grieving and I would like a break.
Alby thinks it’s the end of the world. Lying on the floor in front of the armchair she looks up at me, wide-eyed and juddering. Luna is lounging above her on a cushion. She doesn’t have a care in the universe.
This is my 10th year of living with an anxious dog, and I haven’t yet found any way of making life less scary for her. I know her triggers: banging or drilling, the hoover, the merest hint of emotion in a conversation. On the rare occasion voices are raised she trots upstairs to lie on our bed. I admire her boundaries.
To try and calm her I’ve tried: a kind voice, a stern voice, not touching her, cuddling her (usually a big NO in these circumstances but I had to try it), putting her in another room away from the noise, taking her for a walk so she can process the stress right out of her body. Nothing has made a difference.
The floors do need hoovering, and occasionally a nail does need to be put in a wall, so we just try to keep the fuss to a minimum. It must be even more scary when you can’t see where the noise is coming from.
Alby has always been a little aloof. Catlike. She does her own thing. Her Schnauzer face, while far less frowning than my OG bestie Mister Benji 2008-2021 RIP, is far less welcoming than Luna’s soppy Cavapoo smile.
But she’s always with me, always just a few feet away no matter what room I’m in. She follows me around the house like a friendly ghost, always lurking, not asking for anything from me.
At night she lies squat in the middle of the bed, a dead weight, unable and unwilling to be moved. As I turn sideways towards sleep she rests her chin ever so delicately on my ankle. It feels like pure love.
Luna is fearless – well, she thinks she is. It’s impossible to stay grumpy with this bold 3 year old bounding around, a cheerful, scrappy look on her face at all times. In hazy, waking morning moments she jumps on the bed, slumps herself down on my chest and lies there peering into my eyes, our noses nearly touching.
She’s the cuddliest dog I’ve ever known. At various points throughout the day she makes it clear it’s time for affection by jumping up to give me a pat on the leg then standing, waiting, ready to be embraced. I don’t know if she’s giving the love or needs to receive it, but as her furry shoulder meets mine a wave of emotion breaks over me. I feel protective but also protected. She’s got my back.
Luna is unfazed by the random banging and scraping sounds coming through the wall, but will kick off barking at the door the next time someone knocks. But she does listen to me: she started off barking and leaping at the door, now she saves us both some time by running into the living room to bark more generally at (and further away from) the “intruder”.
I think that’s called teamwork.
I got my first dog, Mister Benji, in March 2008. I was living alone in a studio flat in Peckham, I’d wanted a dog since I was 4 years old, and it felt like now or never. I wanted someone to look after, someone to be there for who’d be there for me in return. I wanted a reason to get up in the morning and go for a walk. I didn’t yet know about the delicate chin on my ankle, or the mid-morning hugs.
Benji was by my side as my life changed in all sorts of ways, from location (London to Bristol) to situation (renter to homeowner) to career (freelance videographer/photographer/social media person to independent music producer and solo artist). He sat on my lap on the tube on the way to record my first two albums, spending the days snoozing on music studio armchairs or under keyboards. He moved house with me 5 times.
When he died at the grand old age of 14 I was devastated. But it was all worth it. All the love, all the care.
I’ll love you forever, Mister B x
Sometimes owning dogs is a hassle. Boarding is expensive. We can’t go out for more than a few hours. Training dogs to walk nicely on a lead can take a surprisingly long time (though I’ve found Cavapoos way more trainable than Schnauzers). It’s truly awful when they’re ill and when they die.
I wouldn’t change a thing, though. As I type the noises from next door have subsided. All is peaceful. My furry besties are conked out on the rug. They look like they’re enjoying the deepest sleep, but I know they’re listening. They’re poised and ready for anything. Whatever I’m doing, they’re there.
And if someone knocks on the door, Luna knows what to do.
Dogs don’t know what writing is. They don’t know what music is, either. They don’t care how well my latest album did, how much I make, or what my plans are for this week / this month / the rest of my life. They care about when it’s dinnertime. They care about going for a walk. They get ever so slightly grumpy if I stay up later than our usual bedtime. And Alby would prefer it if we didn’t hoover or do any DIY.
While I will continue to plan ahead, try to manage money well and try to figure out what my next set of ambitions are, I also want to accept the quiet wisdom of dog. Be present. Stay nourished and hydrated. Get outside more. Snuggle up wherever and whenever possible. Show your love.
Life is as long as it ends up being. I choose to be more dog.
My new Penfriend album “House Of Stories” is available NOW on super limited vinyl, CDs and KiT hybrid digital albums, with accompanying tees, hoodies and books. Music fans got it to #2 in the Official UK Independent Album Chart in April 2025. Bonkers!
Join The Correspondent’s Clubon Patreon to receive quarterly bundles of art and members-only music plus extra perks + immediate access to my entire digital archive (digital and analogue memberships available)
When you wake at 6.32am on a Sunday and can’t think of anything you’d rather do than sneak quietly up to the attic to play with your new piece of music gear, you know you’re onto something.
I find myself in a new music-making experimentation phase. I watch videos and read message boards about hooking up synthesizers and drum machines to my new MPC Live 2 1 via MIDI.
Late one night I purchase and download three packs of distorted drum breaks 2. They sound delicious.
I find myself suddenly eager to really get to grips with all the hardware that sits in my studio, chain it all together and “jam” (a word and state I have hitherto eschewed entirely. No, I do not want to “jam” with you).
I start working systematically through the brilliant “MPC Bible” 3, noting down things I want to be able to do and eagerly awaiting the chapters that will help me do them. I am being patient for once. I am reading the manual for once. I want to do this well.
I’m not thinking about how I can turn any of this into music for my next solo record: I’m just in the lab. Action is more important than results.
Yesterday I sampled several old recordings from my phone: a sheep baa-ing, a goat goat-ing and me softly singing “doo-doo-di-doo”.
After I hit publish this afternoon I will turn those samples into instruments, creating chords. No, sh-ords 4. NO, GHORDS! 5
I find a new favourite YouTuber: Jon Makes Beats 6. I like him because he invites us to spend time watching him make something from start to finish. These are the sorts of videos I’ve always wanted to make, but haven’t got round to…yet.
Jon has gravitas, and his deep emotional understanding of making art through sound comes through in everything he uploads. He is comfortable, unapologetic, kind, welcoming. I find his videos immensely comforting.
I’ve been finding everything tricky recently, but throwing myself into something different is helping. In the weeks between my Gran passing away and her funeral, I was unable to plan out my next week of creative work, let alone the next 3 months, let alone actually embark on any of the work itself.
After last Thursday’s funeral I’m not suddenly fine. Of course not. But yesterday, between self-propelled MPC lessons, I plotted out what the rest of the year could look like in the world of my music project Penfriend. I don’t know why 7, but I just felt like it, and now the chaos feels a little less chaotic.
I have so much I want to make all the time, and it’s always frustrating that I can’t make all of it. For a while I haven’t felt able to make any of it. But I’m starting to believe that I might be able to make some of it very soon. And that’s a huge improvement.
Share your tips on finding forward motion in the comments, please – I need them!
My new Penfriend album “House Of Stories” is available NOW on super limited vinyl, CDs and KiT hybrid digital albums, with accompanying tees, hoodies and books. Music fans got it to #2 in the Official UK Independent Album Chart in April 2025. Bonkers!
Join The Correspondent’s Clubon Patreon to receive quarterly bundles of art and members-only music plus extra perks + immediate access to my entire digital archive (digital and analogue memberships available)
24 hours before my holiday ends, I am itching to get back to my life of making and doing.
Naples is loud, exciting, busy, delicious, rammed full of people, effervescent with traffic. It’s intense, colourful, gritty, a blast. I’ve had a great time experiencing it.
It’s just…I love my life, my home, my quiet garden. My colourful attic studio where I make music and videos. My friendly neighbourhood on the edge of the city. I love my dream job and how I get to spend my days.
Two years ago today I was miserable in Bristol, raw nerves assaulted by a daily soundtrack of a dual carriageway and noisy neighbours, fading away in a dark house that sapped my spirit. Unable to think, unable to be creative, unable to write the album I knew I wanted – and needed – to write.
Everything in my life has changed for the better since then.
This is a strange moment, though. I know I want to get back, but I don’t have a clear picture of what I’ll do when I get there. My new album came out three weeks ago. The fanfare immediately died down.
What do I do now?
I sit at the long, dark dining table, sun filtering through the soft curtains, coffee close at hand. I am perplexed.
What more do I have to give?
Reach for the turtles.
It’s not enough to spend years writing, producing and releasing an album: I have to find ways to continually introduce the music to new people while creating fun experiences for my existing audience.
It’s not enough to create a long form video for YouTube: I have to cut clips out and remove the left and right hand side of the frame to entertain people on different platforms.
It’s not enough to write a blog post: I have to cut out the highlights to share in Notes / tweets / threads to give my piece the best chance of being read by people who already follow me.
I’ve written before about “have to” versus “get to”. Replace “have to” with “get to” for an immediate bump of enthusiasm for the thing you’re privileged to “get to” do, while also knowing that, to have any chance to paying for recording and manufacturing costs, you really do “have to”…
If I don’t do these things, I have to accept that my success will always be limited by my efforts, or lack of efforts. To flip the name of this blog: if I do nothing, nothing will happen.
It’s frustrating to expend so much energy on something and then so quickly feel like the tennis ball I’ve thrust so hopefully out into the universe has not fallen onto tarmac, but morphed into a small beanbag and got stuck in a sandpit.
It didn’t even bounce once.
When in Napoli…espresso!
I used to get excited right before an album release, thinking about all the fun ways it could change my life. This time next year I could be booked for festivals! Maybe a brilliant independent label will want to release the next album! I could have money in the bank! Other artists might want me to sing/play/produce their songs! A sync agent could track me down and give me incredible opportunities!
I don’t entertain those thoughts any more, and maybe that’s a bit sad, but it’s not because I’m jaded or bitter. I just know, seven albums in, that gradual, sustainable growth is better for my career and for my nervous system. The more times I do this bonkers thing the more I see it’s about keeping going, not about having a big win that supposedly changes everything.
I don’t want to change everything. I love my life, my relationship, my home, the ways I get to spend my days. It took a long time to get here. I built this myself, over many years.
However, I truly believe “House Of Stories” is my best, most heartfelt and accomplished album yet. I feel so much responsibility to try and get that bloody ball to bounce that it can only be my fault when it doesn’t.
It’s overwhelming, and the second-guessing stops me in my tracks. I can’t be the only one who wants to try, who wants to plan their way out of this feeling, but ends up doing nothing instead. I am paralysed by indecision, and I hate it.
I ponder the whole ridiculous enterprise. Is everything online just there to advertise something else? Are we all just making more and more things, then cutting smaller things out of the big things so we can point fingers at our other things, at ourselves? Am I just a big pointing finger pointing indirectly at my album? Am I supposed to be wearing a sandwich board at all times?
No thanks.
This is not about algorithms or supposed shadow bans. I’m fully sold on the potentially infinite rewards of the internet, not just because I have made my full time living from it for the past six years but because I got my first email address in 1997, started blogging in 2004, joined Twitter and YouTube in 2007 and have never stopped seeing The Internet as an exciting new frontier. A Superhighway, if you will.
And so I do blame myself when nothing much happens after a full year of posting 1-2 videos per week on YouTube. I must have done it wrong.
I can see the huge potential of TikTok for music discovery, but can’t figure out what captions to put at the start of my clips, so I post them anyway and nothing happens. I must have done that wrong too.
How can I get it right? How can I get this fucking ball to bounce?
At lunch with some experienced music industry folk in Naples, the topic turns to TikTok. I am asked whether I feel pressure to make videos for TikTok, whether I feel like I can’t keep up. I talk about how excited I am to have access to these tools and all the others. I’ve always felt that way. That doesn’t mean I have the time to do all the things I want, but I believe in what I make and I believe there are ways to get those things to people in a way that works for both parties. I don’t known what they are, but I know I want to keep trying.
I just don’t know what to do next. Since “House Of Stories” came out I have become the beanbag stuck in the sandpit.
10th June Penfriend Ink, Nottingham, UK
Back home, I make lists of the same old things and find myself unable to do anything about ticking those boxes. I create a new ideal weekly schedule: time out aside each day for sharing my existing work and making new things.
I become obsessed with tasks that have a clear visual start and end. I clear up my overgrown garden. I attach the willow screening I bought an entire year ago to the broken fence. I disassemble piles of things in every room, order nine Kallax units of various configurations to finally give me the storage I need across two workspaces and the spare (merch) room. I finally find a space for my teen cassette collection.
Is this burnout, bereavement or both?
The Launchpad: BEFOREThe Launchpad: AFTER
Finally, I feel ready to think about music again. Renewing my workspace has brought new energy. It finally feels like the right time to delve into the nerdy world of synthesis, to make the very most of the strange, beautiful instruments I started collecting during the pandemic. I’m ready to experiment again. I’m ready to start looking ahead.
Maybe I’ve just been trying to play the wrong ball game. Maybe, instead of bouncing a tennis ball away from me, hoping it will gather momentum, I just need to keep the ball in the air.
“It’s easy to play the game of being creative like it’s something to win, but in my experience that will only get you so far. Creativity is less like a game to win, and much more like a game of “Keepy Uppy”.
This game can be played alone or with friends, and the point is to keep a balloon from touching the ground, by gently hitting it up into the air.
Unlike most games, the point of Keepy Uppy isn’t to win, the point of the game is to keep playing. The point is to play in such a way, that you keep the game going for as long as possible.”
Thank you, Andy. So wise, always.
This week’s attempt to keep the ball in the air looks like this:
What ball/s are you trying to keep in the air? See you in the comments.
My new Penfriend album “House Of Stories” is available NOW on super limited vinyl, CDs and KiT hybrid digital albums, with accompanying tees, hoodies and books. Music fans got it to #2 in the Official UK Independent Album Chart in April 2025. Bonkers!
Join The Correspondent’s Clubon Patreon to receive quarterly bundles of art and members-only music plus extra perks + immediate access to my entire digital archive (digital and analogue memberships available)
Last Saturday 31st May I played my songs on a stage in front of people for the first time in 5.5 years – and it didn’t feel like I thought it would.
Between 2005 and 2019 I played around 600 shows as a solo artist, usually completely alone but occasionally with a backing band. Sometimes supporting artists you’ve heard of, often putting on my own nights and championing bands I liked.
Before and alongside that I toured the world as a hired bassist and vocalist for artists including Tricky, Viv Albertine, Lil’ Chris, The Penelopes and Alex Parks. I went on Top Of The Pops with A-Ha. I toured Italian piazzas with Duncan James from Blue.
I have played a LOT of gigs in my life: some amazing, uplifting, life-affirming; some upsettingly bad, why-on-earth-am-I-doing-this-to-myself affairs. At the end of 2019 I wanted to stop. I needed to stop.
When you can’t find the joy in the thing you thought you wanted to do more than anything in the world, it’s time to take a big step back.
Oh hi, burnout!
Touring used to be a huge part of my identity. From 2005 onwards I loved being on the road. I hated routine, I’d routinely say, and loved being somewhere different every day. I loved the unique communities that gelled together for one night only, I loved sharing my music with people and occasionally hearing them singing along.
I loved the heroism of playing to a cold room of another band’s fans, winning them over usually by around song three of my set. Some rooms were colder than others, but I always got at least a handful of people interested, sometimes a lot more, and the feeling I got when that wave turned was addictive.
When I was hired to play for other artists, I loved supporting their vision by contributing to the sound of the band on stage. I loved being paid for my musical skills, and calling music my job.
I loved ticking off every single country on my “list of countries I’d like to visit one day” without having to pay for a single flight myself, and I loved the surprised respect I garnered from people when they heard who I was playing for, or saw me pop up on TV.
I remember watching as other musicians I knew gave up life on the road. One by one they chose a steady job, getting married, having children. I knew I didn’t want the latter, and didn’t expect I’d ever have the option of the other two.
I didn’t understand why someone would choose to turn their back on what they loved.
I couldn’t comprehend that they might have fallen out of love with it.
I didn’t think I ever could.
Photo by Ania Shrimpton
2019 did it. A grind of support slots with largely disinterested audiences. Saying yes to things that made no sense (£50 slots 4 hours drive from home, no potential audience crossover). Unfriendly slash downright rude headline bands. An entirely avoidable driving incident that cost me more than I made on the entire tour.
I needed a rest. I had already decided my first solo project She Makes War had to end, so I started to wind everything down. One last solo headline show. One last band headline show (sold out!). One last tour with my friend Robin Ince: a truly life-affirming, lovely experience.
And then we had a worldwide pandemic.
My new Penfriend project was scheduled to launch on 1st May 2020, featuring a host of online and remote physical elements: my Correspondent’s Club membership, quarterly music and zine bundles, regular blog posts, regular livestreams, a podcast series and a new YouTube channel. I hadn’t started thinking about gigs or tours. I didn’t want to.
When it became clear it wasn’t safe to perform live, I chucked the idea of it away entirely. I didn’t miss it. My identity shifted away from fearless road warrior with chaotic home life towards thoughtful creative practitioner, building routines that nourished my work and allowed me to give so much more to my community than random support slots could.
In March 2021 I made internet waves one Monday evening with a video about why I wouldn’t be touring that year either. I made it to encourage others to really think about the consequences of their actions, and the majority of people commenting thanked me for saying what they’d been thinking.
I thought gathering people in a small room was reckless. I couldn’t stomach the idea of being the reason people got ill. I didn’t want 150 people breathing in my direction for a minute, let alone the entirety of my set. I knew there were other ways I could continue to show up for my music-and-community-starved audience, so I kept doing that.
And then the years rolled by, as they do, and I kept making and sharing albums. Without the distraction, exhaustion and expense of gigging and touring, I was able to make more things to last: more music, more videos, more connections with people all around the world.
I kept playing livestreams when they went out of vogue (having started playing them in 2014, way before they were in vogue), commuting up to my attic in my slippers to say hi to people across the globe, sharing music, time and space.
As musicians, we’re supposed to want to do certain things, and we’re supposed to go along with things that don’t entirely make sense because they’re supposedly good for our careers, or are the logical next step towards what we’re supposed to want to achieve.
If we don’t do these things, there are people waiting online to enthusiastically badger us about doing them.
“When’s the tour?”
“Get on tour”
“Can’t wait to see this live!”
These are all compliments, I know that. I am fortunate to have people requesting my presence on stage. Thank you for the compliment.
But I will continue to push back against the idea that creating music from thin air, crafting it into songs and soundscapes and finding fun ways to share them in beautiful physical formats isn’t enough without a live performance of those songs on exactly the right night, in the right location, at the right price for those demanding a gig.
After “One In A Thousand” came out in 2023, whenever someone asked me why I wasn’t touring now the worst of the pandemic was over, my go-to answer was “because I can’t afford it”.
This was, unfortunately, true. More importantly, I didn’t want to. And I kept not wanting to right up until the moment in early 2025 that I annoyed myself so much with the “touring is too expensive” mantra that I decided to do one local show the day before my 44th birthday.
When I started performing my own music live in 2005 I vowed to keep things sustainable: that’s why I played so many shows completely solo. No additional musicians, no crew, just me. I loved being self sufficient. For years I revelled in fitting a little guitar amp, pedals and a megaphone in one rolling suitcase and stuffing my merch in another, arriving at venues to comments like “are you going on holiday?” then doing a Mary Poppins and pulling weird item after weird item out of my bag at soundcheck.
In early 2025, on the cusp of releasing my third album in my new Penfriend era, it started to seem ridiculous and a little churlish to keep refusing to share my songs in a room with people who wanted to enjoy them.
I decided that if I couldn’t sell enough tickets to a local show to cover costs and pay myself and anyone else involved, I would know it was the end for me and venue gigs. If people didn’t want the tickets I was selling, I would take the hint. No hard feelings. Let the fans decide.
The fans decided.
31/5/25 – Rae Dowling
Due to my garbage streaming numbers, no promoter wanted to take a risk on me. They refused to take my chart positions or my 10K mailing list into account. So just like the good old days I hired the venue myself – thank you, Rough Trade Nottingham!
The gig sold out in about a week – thank you, music fans!
I sold all but 10 of the tickets through my email list and online shop, so no marketing budget was needed – thank you, email list!
My husband ticked everyone off as they came through the door and handed them an envelope full of goodies: a signed souvenir ticket, stickers and a flyer – thank you, Tim!
To ward off the solo artist blues of yore I hired my friend Carol Hodge to accompany me on keys and vocals for most of my set, and she also supported me with her own gorgeous music and played a stunner as usual – thank you, Carol!
All that remained was to play the show.
My main concern was that nerves would overtake me at the crucial moment, ruining my weeks of prep and rehearsal, making me look a fool in front of 150 fans of my music, disappointing them, myself and everyone in the vicinity.
Oh hi, imposter syndrome!
I had a big think about it. I decided my main job on the day was to stay as calm and present as possible. I was to go into gig day with no expectations of greatness or abject rubbishness. I would be a worthy human standing amongst other worthy humans, exchanging energy. That would be enough. (Though I still wanted to be able to play my songs well.)
I did it. I played well. I exchanged energy. I stayed present. When the generous applause came my way, I didn’t turn away or crouch down to fiddle with a guitar pedal like I used to. I stood in quiet gratitude, accepting the audience’s thanks.
It didn’t feel like I thought it would. I didn’t get an adrenaline rush. I didn’t feel nervous on stage. It felt comfortable. It felt good.
I couldn’t have asked for a more attentive, open-hearted audience. When they started singing along at the end of my first song “Scared To Capsize” (a SMW set-closing classic), I knew we were embarking on something special together. The singing along didn’t stop for the rest of my set. They laughed, they applauded, they played along with all of it. I felt held, supported, encouraged and loved. Thank you so much.
And afterwards? A quiet satisfaction. A glow. A midnight burger because we didn’t have chance to eat dinner before the show (some things never change). No plans for bigger better more more MORE. Just gratitude.
31/5/25 – Rae Dowling
Saturday night was a big moment, but all the things I’ve created since I stopped touring in 2019 have more than filled any potential void. Perhaps playing venue gigs will become something I do a few times a year. Perhaps one of my musical heroes will invite me out on tour with them. I’m more open to it after last week’s gig, but where in my former life as She Makes War I jumped at every opportunity (often living to regret my haste), Penfriend is far more discerning.
Some people have commented that it’s great to see I’m “back”. I’m not “back” – I never went away.
I have four more self-promoted Penfriend shows this year, and no live plans whatsoever yet for 2026.
My new Penfriend album “House Of Stories” is available NOW on super limited vinyl, CDs and KiT hybrid digital albums, with accompanying tees, hoodies and books. Music fans got it to #2 in the Official UK Independent Album Chart in April 2025. Bonkers!
Join The Correspondent’s Clubon Patreon to receive quarterly bundles of art and members-only music plus extra perks + immediate access to my entire digital archive (digital and analogue memberships available)
Consistency is a word I consistently think about. Consistency is something I want to aim for, am intimidated by, have occasionally attained and maintained before falling off the horse yet again. Consistency in writing words and music, in communicating with fans of my music, in making videos and podcast episodes. It can feel like the key to success – which means I only have myself to blame if I stumble. It can be maddening. But it can give me great hope. Maybe some of this is under my control.
In my last piece I asked “What do I do now”…now that my album is out, now that the adrenaline has spiked and now that the world’s attention has moved on to the next person’s new and exciting thing.
This blog is called “Do Stuff ∴ Stuff Happens” (the ∴ sign means “therefore”). In my experience, the minute I stop sending things out into the world, almost all feedback stops: sales, emails, comments. I’m feeling that particularly acutely at the moment. It’s only been 5 weeks and 6 days since “House Of Stories” came out, and it feels like I imagined the whole thing.
2.5 weeks ago, in the interests of creating my own momentum again, I returned from my holiday in Naples with a new “ideal week” schedule in my calendar and set myself to work. I got back to the gym. I started running again after many moons. I did yoga. I meditated. I wrote 1000 words every morning. I started my tax return. I spent a satisfying day clearing my very overgrown garden and planning some home improvements. I plotted future music releases. I started prepping for my first gig in 5.5 years (2 days from now). I made a list of all the videos I want to make. I felt frazzled, but not aimless. I hate feeling aimless.
And then I got the news. My Gran had died in her sleep. She was 95.
Six days before that call, I visited her in her care home and we hung out for a few hours in her room. We ate sandwiches cut into triangles (she pulled her nose up at the cheese ones and offered them to me), had tea and biscuits (she picked out one Jammie Dodger), and chatted about this and that. She told me she was 85, and I didn’t correct her – I’m not a monster.
She said “Everything is heavy now” while she was lifting her teacup, but merrily ate her lunchtime ice cream. I held the bowl up for her so it wouldn’t drip.
“That’s a good idea”, she said. I felt helpful.
It was another ordinary visit – except that for the first time ever I didn’t get to say “goodbye”.
I didn’t know it was going to be our last visit.
After years of fierce independence, my Gran had been in and out of hospital for 2-3 years with varying degrees of drama. During these times I always made sure to thank her, tell her I loved her, make sure she knew how inspiring she was to me and how glad I was she was still with us. I sat by so many hospital beds I lost count, folded into all sorts of painful postures over the hard plastic so I could lean over to hold her hand, give her a neck massage, file her nails, moisturise her hands, put dry shampoo in her hair, hold up cups, bottles, straws, bowls, whatever she needed. Always careful not to force my help, infantilise, reduce. Sometimes she needed my help, sometimes she didn’t. I wanted her to know she could always have it. I think she did.
This is what we do for each other.
I often tried to imagine what it must be like for her, having held me as a baby, watching me grow and change over the years, now seeing this woman in her 40s show up in all these different places. When she looked at me did she see the blonde baby, the blossoming teen, the independent 20-year old, 30-year old, 40-year old? When she looked at my face, was it a blur of memories?
When I arrived for our last visit Gran wasn’t in her room. It was like that scene in the movie where the relative arrives just too late to see their loved one – but nothing bad had happened, she was just hanging out in the lounge with the other residents. I sat down and waited. When the cheerful orderly wheeled her in, Gran smiled and said “I knew it would be you”. I felt proud, but also relieved – every time I went to see her I braced myself for the possibility she wouldn’t know who I was. I feel so fortunate that never happened.
Gran wasn’t particularly chatty that day, but neither was I. Exhausted from travelling home from Italy the day before, then driving 2 hours from Nottingham, I sat quietly, hoping Gran would agree our long silences were companionable ones.
Sometimes I found it hard to think of things to say. When she moved into the care home at the start of the year I hoped a whole new topic of conversation would open up: “You’ll never guess what so-and-so said!”, “That singer they had the other day was great/good/rubbish” – that sort of thing. But it didn’t happen – or at least she didn’t share those stories with me.
We usually talked about her exciting past growing up on the canal boats in Runcorn, walking with Tommy the horse as he pulled the family and their cargo along the water. Her face always lit up when I asked questions about her time living in Hong Kong, Malaya (as it was known when she lived there) and Cyprus with my Grandad Chris (who she survived by 34 years), my Mum and my Auntie.
On this day, she squinted and gestured towards my armfuls of tattoos.
“Are those for life?”
“Yes, Gran.” I rolled my eyes in the same funny way she liked rolling hers, and she smiled.
We talked about the tattoo she was going to get one day, a running jokey conversation that started a few years ago during a visit my sister and I made together.
“Come on then, what tattoo are you going to get?” I asked.
She didn’t hesitate. “A butterfly.”
“Very cool.”
“I’m not ready to give up yet”, she added.
“I’m very pleased to hear it”, I said.
Every time I said “Bye Gran, I love you” she would grab my hand and hold it tightly. She did this as far back as I can remember. It was a thing. She did it to everyone she liked – I have a vivid memory of her doing it to my brother’s handsome schoolfriend in the mid ‘90s. She’d grab on and say “I love you very much” and you’d have to gently pull your hand away, then wave all the way to the door, or the car. She would always stand at her front door, waving and waving.
On this day, I went to get a status update from the care home manager to pass on to my Mum. We had a good chat, and I thanked her and the team for everything they were doing to keep my Gran safe and comfortable.
When I got back to her room she wasn’t there – again. I noticed her mobile phone wasn’t working, and that the charger had gone missing – again. I drove to the local shopping centre and picked out a baby pink one, mostly because Gran liked pink things but because I thought it would be less borrow-able / steal-able. To seal the deal I wrote her name on it in gold Sharpie.
I went back to the home. She was still living it up in the lounge – no visitors allowed there. I put the charger next to her bed and plugged her phone in.
“That was a good visit”, I thought as I drove away.
No fuss. No drama. No big goodbyes. Just love.
Always love.
I scheduled last week’s “What do I do now?” post a full week before it was published, in a flurry of creativity, productivity and consistency.
When I asked that question, I didn’t know the answer would come down on me like a ton of bricks.
What do I do now?
I cry. I write. I talk to my family. I remember snippets of conversations from 44 years of being loved by someone who isn’t here any more. I cry some more. I declutter every room in my house in a frenzy because I can’t focus on anything else for more than a few minutes. (I find a card from her tucked down the side of a shelf while doing so, and cry again.) I feel really stupid about that one bratty thing I remember saying to her when I was a teenager. I feel glad I got all those hours with her in hospitals and A&E departments to have the conversations that don’t usually happen in calm living rooms. I remember that it’s my birthday on Sunday and for the first time ever she won’t be thinking about me. I listen to podcasts about processing emotion. I force myself to exercise every morning so I allow myself to feel worse than I already do. I remember our last shopping trip together (her last shopping trip ever) when all she wanted was a Greggs sausage roll and to walk systematically up and down every aisle at TK Maxx looking at every item and enjoying its existence in the world. I wake in the mornings feeling angry, or sad, or both. I worry that I’ll forget her voice, and kick myself for being too shy to ask if we could record some of her stories, years ago, before all the hospital beds. I feel relieved that I don’t have any regrets, and lucky that I got to spend a few more normal hours with her in the last week of her time on this planet. I miss her.
I feel proud that I turned up so consistently for her over the past few years and created a new, deeper relationship with her. I didn’t plan it, I just kept trying to do what I thought was right.
I’m so glad I did.
So, what do I do now? I keep trying to do little things that matter, allowing the sadness to overtake me and flow through my body. I remember her, and I feel so lucky.
Last Thursday I went and got her butterfly tattoo. No regrets.
Yes Gran, these are for life.
Love you forever. Laura xxx
Huge thanks Helaina at Rest In Pieces Tattoo in Nottingham for the beautiful tattoos and a lovely calm afternoon x
My new Penfriend album “House Of Stories” is available NOW on super limited vinyl, CDs and KiT hybrid digital albums, with accompanying tees, hoodies and books. Music fans got it to #2 in the Official UK Independent Album Chart in April 2025. Bonkers!
Join The Correspondent’s Clubon Patreon to receive quarterly bundles of art and members-only music plus extra perks + immediate access to my entire digital archive (digital and analogue memberships available)
xxx
Baby Alby, aged 3 months 
Wise Alby, aged 10
Tap to get your FREE 12-track album + 31-page PDF zine of stories, photographs and artwork here.
My new Penfriend album “House Of Stories” is available NOW on super limited vinyl, CDs and KiT hybrid digital albums, with accompanying tees, hoodies and books. Music fans got it to #2 in the Official UK Independent Album Chart in April 2025. Bonkers!
Join The Correspondent’s Club on Patreon to receive quarterly bundles of art and members-only music plus extra perks + immediate access to my entire digital archive (digital and analogue memberships available)
Listen to my first Penfriend album “Exotic Monsters” and browse my back catalogue here.
If you make things too – or want to know more about the creative process – I’m sharing thoughtful weekly essays here on my experiments in art, music and life on Substack (and I won’t be at all offended if you prefer to read my stuff there rather than on this absolutely gorgeous website).
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