Dusty Wentworth

A family day out to Lowestoft: masculinity, memory, disability, and sugar-fuelled mayhem. ☕ Morning Mayhem, Meds, and Mobilisation We woke to the unmistakable clatter of the bin men — too late for the garden waste, again. That sort of domestic defeat where you just sigh into your slippers and accept it. Coffee became the consolation prize. While the kettle hissed, I began my usual breakfast — 14 tablets, swallowed one by one in silence. Not exactly a fry-up, but my body has its own checklist before the rest of me is allowed to function. Still half-asleep, I cradled my coffee like a shield while the kids launched their morning offensive: Can we get chips? Are we having ice cream? Can we paddle? Their enthusiasm came in rapid bursts — relentless, chaotic, but hilarious. I negotiated a ceasefire long enough to pack the car. The power chair made the cut today — the manual’s fine when I’m steady, but energy is a currency I need to spend wisely. With snacks, sun cream, and a heal...

A tribute to the resilience of the human spirit. Some books are read. Others are felt. Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor E. Frankl isn’t merely read—it’s absorbed, etched not just in memory, but in the soul. Frankl, a Jewish psychiatrist and Holocaust survivor, writes not to recount horrors for horror’s sake, but to bear witness. What emerges is not just a record of suffering, but a manifesto of hope: that even in the bleakest of human conditions, meaning can be found—and must be sought. For me, this was not an easy read. Though I cannot claim to understand the suffering endured in the camps, my connection runs deep. My grandfather was among the British and Canadian troops of the 11th Armoured Division who liberated Bergen-Belsen on 15 April 1945. What they discovered—60,000 sick, starving, brutalised souls—defies comprehension. History, it seems, has a way of echoing across generations. Decades after my grandfather walked through the gates of Belsen, I too found myself on...