My 1980's primary school was home to tepid bottles of milk, ramshackle terrapins and identically-clad kids in hand-me-down C&A coats and ice cream tub lunch boxes. Every child in the neighbourhood went there, regardless of family income, house price, religious or political persuasion. It was a proper microcosm, a dog poo-encircled centre of the community.
My boy was made in Italy, took his first breath in the UK, cut teeth in Hong Kong, was pre-schooled in Australia and primary schooled back in the UK. His sister's birth certificate bears a picture of the Sydney Harbour Bridge but her passport's a very regal British burgundy, which was issued in New Zealand.
It's fair to say 2017 has been, to quote our monarch in her 1992 speech, an "annus horribilis". In fact, these last few years have been anni horribiles for the people of the UK. I've found myself taking a deep breath before clicking on the BBC News updates which pop up hourly on my phone, like ceaseless bleeping harbingers of doom.
Thanks to our brand partner, I've recently ping-ponged back to Australia with a couple of little Vegemite-convert POMs in tow. There have been heaps of changes during our five-year absence, including Opal cards and Uniqlo but one thing that's stayed the same (like Jimmy Giggle) is how Australia physically and culturally enables the most awesome of childhoods.
Society has always found forests' worth of sticks to beat parents with. Currently vying with refined sugar for the title of slackest parenting choice, is allowing your children to use screens. Here's what I've come to realise though: refusing to accept and embrace your kids' place in a digital world may do them far more of a disservice.
Back in 2006 when one of my housemates announced they had something to show me, it was usually a coveted Topshop skirt or a text from the guy from last night. This time I was doing the showing, brandishing a white plastic stick with two blue lines.
You'd be crazy to quit a cushy private sector job to teach, right? I chat to the very sane Clare Wheelwright, who did just that.
I was an immigrant for 10 years.
Here's another 'mummy blog' post but it won't bemoan the utter relentlessness of parenthood with witty tips on removing Weetabix missiles from bras.
If you're one of my closest friends, you should consider yourself less than perfect.
Warning: this blog post contains reference to children (some of you might prefer to click away now).
I have a big birthday happening next year. It's the one which means I can no longer (legitimately) continue referring to myself as a girl.
Can't wait to squeeze my body into a zip-up synthetic cocoon, spend the night in an un-insulated broom cupboard-sized space and pee into a pit.
It’s fair to say Taiwan wouldn’t be on everyone’s bucket list as a dream destination.
From the oriental East, we found ourselves in the Arab East.
The few months we spent in Italy were defined by food and architecture from such ancient, authentic origins.
Groggy with jetlag, sleeplessness and opiate painkillers, I found myself in the back of an aircon-blasted taxi spiralling its way up a hill dotted with Chinese road signs.