nicolette kaponis

... back soon. Unless I decide to live here forever.

Whoever invented the phrase ‘it’s all Greek to me’ clearly had never attempted to read a Welsh road sign. Or perhaps they had and just assumed the Welsh language wasn’t a language at all but a Scrabble game gone mad after, oh, I’d say about 73 shots of tequila.  Case in point, my blog post heading. (Even the English translation beside it looks weird.) It doesn't even look like words. The power of the Welsh language to render anything in its vicinity unintelligible by sheer association, is not its only party trick. The melodic cadence needed to get one’s mouth around letters that shouldn’t be next to each other, results in an accent that, when listened to for even the shortest of moments, makes you feel as if you are stepping into a warm bath, glass of wine in hand. A metaphorical bath that I happily immersed myself in this past weekend.  When you are fortunate enough to have friends splashed across the United Kingdom, you brave the crush that is Friday evening at

It was a morning in deepest British winter. I awoke with a start as if from a nightmare. My eyes tried to blink open but remained clouded in darkness. Was I blind? My heart raced as I sat up with a start and realised I still had my eye patches on. I removed them with a thankful sigh and squinted at the light bursting through my not-quite drawn curtains. As I attempted to steady my breath, my mind tried to recall what had gripped me with such fear as to rouse me so fully.  It came to me all at once. A world without book. That had been my dream. My nightmare. Even as I type this, shivers run up and down my body at the very thought. And it wasn’t the first time I had been gripped by such a terrible notion. Often, when my eyes have been deep within the pages of my latest read, I catch myself wondering just what I would be doing with my time, if that which I held in my hand ceased to exist. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Oh how I do miss my lovely reading room... Books have

It was the scent that put me straight at ease. A hint of sandalwood, and, yes, a touch of lavender. The traditional scents of calm and relaxation. It made sense. I was in a spa after all. The friendly smile of my spa host led me from the front desk, through a set of double doors and into…heaven. And for the next four hours, I indulged in enough pampering to distract me from the fact I was spending my birthday away from my sister, who had also celebrated another year on Earth just two days before… in Melbourne. Since we were both in London for our respective birthdays last year, this was the first August (since 2008) I was to spend without her nearby. It didn’t bear thinking about so I planned enough distracting activities throughout the day to make sure I wasn’t a blubbering mess by the end. Oh the things I had to do!

Over the past year, I have slept in eighteen different beds and/or couches. By the end of this month, the total will have increased to twenty. Now, I know what y’all are thinking, and please stop. (Maybe one week I’ll be brave enough to write THAT post, but until then… Hi Mum, Hi Dad!) Right, back to my point. My point is that while some of these beds have been attached to hotels and Airbnbs during holidays, most have not. And that is because, without really realizing it, I’ve become somewhat of a nomad. Or, at least, a hell of a lot more nomad-y than at any other time in my life. Because up until July 2016, the thought of not having a fixed address, my own sanctuary – the same place for each and every single night of the year – would have turned my stomach, would have sent hot and cold shivers down my spine. In fact, rather than dream about my wedding day, the only dream that I had when it came to life’s conventions, was owning my own house. And when that dream became a reality i