By the time Eliza Maxine Olivia Miller was eleven, she had lived in eight different country towns.
Of all the things I’d imagined might stop us from reaching Rennart Castle by nightfall, goats had not even made the top fifty.
In the spring of 1944, I was sixteen, living with my parents and two older sisters in Kassa, Hungary.
Melbourne, 1912: on the busy corner of Collins and Swanston streets stood an attractive woman of middle age.
I am in the spare room, which doubles as my office, and I have just finished my day’s work.
Owning our story and loving ourselves through that process is the bravest thing that we will ever do.
I heard them long before I saw them, the throaty rumble of their Second World War engines reverberating in my hearing aids as I sat outside on the morning of my 100th birthday.
The hot touch of the city still on her, Rosalind unfastens her stockings and drops them in the bathroom sink with a handful of washing soda.
On a Saturday morning in late November 1944, in a railway shed in the Dutch seaside resort of Scheveningen, three ballistic missiles, each nearly fifteen metres long...
DEACON CUFFY LAMBKIN OF FIVE ENDS BAPTIST CHURCH became a walking dead man on a cloudy September afternoon in 1969.
The place looked like something out of Amityville: all paint-chipped walls, dusty windows, and menacing shadows cast by moonlight.
If you had visited the quaint English village of Great Rollright in 1945, you might have spotted a thin, dark-haired and unusually elegant woman emerging from a stone farmhouse called The Firs and climbing onto her bicycle.
It wasn’t until I did that test that I really thought about how aspects of my personality and my strengths could affect my mental health, through my reactions and approaches to things.