I was born a long time ago, in a place, far, far away—true story. But before that, I’ve had the feeling recently that I’d like to go back to blogging. While I write a few times a week for a website that people say nice things about, I need something all the other things. Somewhere where there are no restrictions about what, when and how much I want to write.
So back to my true story that never happened.
When I was three or four, we lived in a house on the edge of a jungle near a beachfront. In this memory, a big tiger would sneak into the house, night after night, and terrify me as my mum and dad slept. Think Shere Khan from The Jungle Book, except very very real. To me, anyway.
It would walk through the front door, a low rumble on its breath padding its paw on the wooden floor. Time stretched like the long shadows on the beach on those moonlit nights. I felt each tick of the clock, each beat of my heart and the tiger prowled closer and closer. My parents soundly sleeping in the room next door were a world away.
Eventually, of course, I realised that my worst fear was just a dream and just like that, my recurring nightmare just stopped. While it still lives with me after all these years, I’m grateful for it in many ways. It’s my only memory of my first home. We moved to the UK soon after and my dreams and worries moved on too.
Back here in Scotland in 2025, where tigers are only seen on screens, I plan to write about things I’m grateful for. I don’t think the world needs my thoughts about our shared real-life nightmares beyond the 300-character limit on Bluesky. But I’m also happy to let this evolve and discover what it becomes together.
Extra thought: You should watch The Pitt. It’s fantastically entertaining TV.