Tracey R

When will Cross Country Trains be investigated. Lack of carriages & constant over crowding. Long routes with 3 carriages when its travelling from Bournemouth to Manchester at peak times picking up in major cities en route. Their staff on the train do amazing fair play to them

5.000 drone show at Las Vegas celebrating Stranger Things' finale x.com/fluxfolio_/sta…

My name’s Daniel, I’m 45, and two weeks ago I learned something about my mother that I’m still ashamed I didn’t see sooner. She’s 80, lives alone in the little tan house she’s been in for half a century. The one with the peeling shutters and the mailbox she still refuses to replace because “it works just fine.” Last Wednesday, she called and said: “Danny… I need help with my grocery list. Can you come? I think I’m forgetting things.” My first instinct? Annoyance. I had deadlines. Kids’ activities. Bills on my desk. A hundred things pulling me in every direction. So I said, “Just tell me what you want. I’ll order it all online.” But she was quiet for a long moment before whispering: “I’d rather you come.” So I did. When I walked into her kitchen, three grocery bags were already sitting neatly on the counter. “Mom… you already shopped,” I said, confused. She waved her hand. “Those are just basics. I still need a few things.” She opened her notebook — the same spiral-bound one she’s used for years — and handed it to me. The list said: • grapes • paper towels • coffee creamer • company And suddenly everything inside me went still. She looked embarrassed, like a kid caught doing something wrong. “I just… didn’t know how else to ask you to come,” she whispered. “You’re always so busy, and I didn’t want to bother you.” That sentence — those ten quiet words — hit harder than anything I’ve felt in years. My mom, the woman who worked two jobs and still made every school concert… the woman who saved every drawing I ever made… the woman who put herself last for decades… felt she had to pretend she needed groceries just to feel worthy of a visit from her own son. I hugged her so tightly she laughed and said, “Oh goodness, you’ll break me.” We never went to the store. Instead, we sat at the tiny kitchen table covered in little sunflower placemats she’s had since the ’90s. We talked about the neighbor’s new dog. About her tomato plant that refuses to grow. About my dad, and how she still forgets he’s not coming through the door sometimes. I stayed longer than I planned. Drank terrible instant coffee. Listened — really listened — the way she used to listen to me. Before I left, she walked me to the door and held my hand for a moment longer than usual. “You made my week, sweetheart,” she said softly. Driving home, I couldn’t shake one thought: How many times did she wait by the window, hoping my car would turn into the driveway? How many afternoons did she tell herself, “He’ll come when he has time,” while the house echoed with loneliness I didn’t notice? I realized that somewhere along the road of adulthood — work, kids, obligations, noise — I started treating her like an errand. Someone to “fit in” when life allowed it. But to her? I was never an errand. I was her world. And all she wanted was an hour with her son in the home where she raised him. 💛 THE LESSON Your parents won’t always tell you they’re lonely. They won’t always say they miss you. They won’t always ask directly. Sometimes they’ll hide it behind a grocery list. Behind a broken lamp. Behind a request that doesn’t really need doing. Go anyway. Sit at their table. Drink the bad coffee. Let them tell you stories you’ve heard a thousand times. Because one day the chair will be empty. The notebook will be closed. The porch light will be off. And you’ll wish you had treated an ordinary Wednesday like the priceless moment it truly was.

“AH NICK!” Can we all agree that, despite the complications (no spoilers), @JoeMarler & @nickmohammed need to do a series together which involves them looking for stuff in boxes? 📦🤣 They could call it ‘Marler & Me’ 🎯 @the_traitors_ Clip from @BBCiPlayer

Ohhhhhh yeahhhhh Its only a matter of days now until the big day. These people inspire me to expand next year. 🎃🔪🍫🍬

They bought the cat a new toy and this was the reaction.. 😂

My second family ..and AM I Lucky

I bet your grandpa doesn't even know this one!

Thank you, Diane Keaton, for the movies, the laughter, the life you brought to every frame. That “You Don’t Own Me” dance in The First Wives Club feels eternal now.

Something something,dancing contest,blah blah, Blackpool,tango,fake tan, but finally, here's Vito #Strictly #StrictlyComeDancing

#Strictly Karen finally has a decent partner! THE WORLD IS HEALING 🎉🎉🎉🎉

*One month before her 95th birthday, Patricia Routledge wrote something that still gently echoes:* **“I’ll be turning 95 this coming Monday. In my younger years, I was often filled with worry — worry that I wasn’t quite good enough, that no one would cast me again, that I wouldn’t live up to my mother’s hopes. But these days begin in peace, and end in gratitude.”** My life didn’t quite take shape until my forties. I had worked steadily — on provincial stages, in radio plays, in West End productions — but I often felt adrift, as though I was searching for a home within myself that I hadn’t quite found. At 50, I accepted a television role that many would later associate me with — Hyacinth Bucket, of Keeping Up Appearances. I thought it would be a small part in a little series. I never imagined that it would take me into people’s living rooms and hearts around the world. And truthfully, that role taught me to accept my own quirks. It healed something in me. At 60, I began learning Italian — not for work, but so I could sing opera in its native language. I also learned how to live alone without feeling lonely. I read poetry aloud each evening, not to perfect my diction, but to quiet my soul. At 70, I returned to the Shakespearean stage — something I once believed I had aged out of. But this time, I had nothing to prove. I stood on those boards with stillness, and audiences felt that. I was no longer performing. I was simply being. At 80, I took up watercolor painting. I painted flowers from my garden, old hats from my youth, and faces I remembered from the London Underground. Each painting was a quiet memory made visible. Now, at 95, I write letters by hand. I’m learning to bake rye bread. I still breathe deeply every morning. I still adore laughter — though I no longer try to make anyone laugh. I love the quiet more than ever. **I’m writing this to tell you something simple:** **Growing older is not the closing act. It can be the most exquisite chapter — if you let yourself bloom again.** Let these years ahead be your *treasure years*. You don’t need to be famous. You don’t need to be flawless. You only need to show up — fully — for the life that is still yours. *With love and gentleness,* — Patricia Routledge

What a wonderful sight!

Pay people properly in social care, give them some respect and status — and there will be no shortage.

Here is a very rough breakdown of the distances between the sides in Regional 1 Midlands for 2025-2026...Drybrook with the most amount of travel at over 700 miles. The average amount of travel has gone from 437.7 miles last season to back up to over 500 at 509.2 miles

If you guys send your pics from the gigs I’ll re post for the next 48 hrs - it will make it feel like we’re still on tour #posttourblues

It’s British baby and no one can do it better! #TroopingTheColour 🇬🇧🇬🇧🇬🇧🇬🇧🇬🇧🇬🇧🇬🇧

A perfectly timed shot! 🚂

@msbarwick It was brill to watch

Absolutely brilliant Warwick #UniversityChallenge

Happy #Caturday