2026
Holding a stranger's child
I was in Nicaragua, heading to Ometepe Island, with only a handful of Spanish words and Google Translate doing the heavy lifting.
The ferry from San Jorge to Ometepe takes about an hour.
I sat at the back beside an elderly man deeply committed to flicking between Twitter, football highlights, and inexplicably, Pet Shop Boys music videos. Commitment comes in many forms.
As the ferry filled, seats disappeared. A young mum stood in the aisle, one arm wrapped around her baby. I shuffled closer to Phone Man and offered her the empty space beside me. She accepted with a soft, tired smile.
Her little boy, maybe twelve months, was unsettled. A sip of water. A brief feed. A wriggle. Nothing quite worked.
Then, without ceremony, he vomited. All over her.
She wiped him, and herself, with his T-shirt. I dug into my bag and handed her some wipes. She took them with a look that needed no translation.
(It still amazes me how children treat vomiting as a brief administrative task and then move on with their day.)
I offered her some crisps. She took a few. He was unimpressed at first… until he wasn’t. Suddenly those big brown eyes locked onto the bag with unmistakable intent.
She kept glancing toward the toilet.
Using Google Translate, I asked if she’d like me to hold him while she went. She handed him to me without hesitation and disappeared quickly while the door was free.
He sat on my legs, calm, serious, entirely focused on the crisps. No tears. No smile. Just purpose.
She returned. He reached for her immediately.
He slipped his hand under her blouse, fed quietly, and then, almost ceremonially, his eyes began their slow close-open-close dance. Each time staying shut a little longer than before. Within seconds, he was asleep.
When the ferry docked, we smiled at each other, that brief, wordless acknowledgement of having shared something small but human.
As I walked up the ramp, I saw her absorbed into waiting famil, hugs, chatter, arms reaching for the sleeping boy. Just before she disappeared into them, she turned back and caught my eye.
She smiled.
The kind of smile mothers give when they feel seen.
New Year’s Eve, street-level edition
Sparkly dresses and gold earrings next to LED headwear that looks like it escaped a rave. High heels, mini skirts and strapless tops… walking past people in down jackets and long pants like it’s two different hemispheres sharing the same footpath. School kids high on freedom. Prams sprinkled in the crowds. Kids rugged up like tiny marshmallows. Kids on dad’s shoulders falling asleep. Mum juggling bags, snacks, jumpers, sanity. Music changing every ten metres as you pass a new restaurant - jazz, pop, techno, something Balkan, something loud, something louder. Languages overlapping. Smells colliding. Rubbish multiplying in real time. People pushing. People walking against the crowd (bold choice). Announcements no one listens to. Impatience. Phones recording everything instead of just… looking. Bare feet. Blisters. Vapes. Vomit (always earlier than expected). Young women dancing provocatively to the cameras. Young men eyeing them off like that tired old cat-and-mouse ritual, except now it’s all filmed, uploaded, and timestamped forever. Young women wearing their partner’s jackets because it’s colder than anticipated (quietly sweet). Families. Friends. Drunk. Happy. Sad. Expensive. Indulgent. Security abundant. Police calm, helpful, endlessly patient. Multicultural in the best, loudest, messiest way. No countdown anyone can hear. Ten minutes of fireworks everyone films and then immediately watches back on their phones. And woven through it all, rough sleepers, often unnoticed, often ambivalent, as the city celebrates another turn around the sun. Chaotic. Human. Overstimulating. Oddly moving. Happy New Year. Same city, new number.