Where do you wear your heart?

I own a v-neck, black cardigan...

…punctuated by a row of ten tiny buttons. It’s 86% silk and 14% cashmere. None of these details are as significant as the big, fat and beautiful red love heart that takes up space on the back of this cardigan.

But I’ve rarely worn it the way its designer intended.

You’re right. I wear my heart on my chest. Fashionably. Emotionally. Not for me, a sleeve.

But, like most mortals, allowing the world to know – and show – my heart when I write, when I speak, can feel terrifying. So, sometimes I hide behind clever word play or glib remarks to avoid truly ‘being seen’. Which is effectively what I’m doing now as you’re reading these words. Know why?

Because it’s late. I’m tired. Miffed at myself for not managing my time better this week and reading far too many sample chapters of soon-to-be-released books… salivating over the authors’ turns of phrase, their prose prowess… no, I’m not penning nonsense just to make up the word count.

The truth is, my muse has changed into her pyjamas and I can’t think of anything witty or even mildly incisive to say … well, I can pull a stubborn rabbit out of a hat and regale you with gratuitous details about being called a Yuppy and a Milf in some online comments this week… outrageous! Didn’t the term ‘yuppy’ die with leg warmers and big hair?

Hand on my heart. I wrote this Phylosophy at the last minute.