![Frances Burscough Frances Burscough](http://web.archive.org./web/20170411220011/http://cdn-03.belfasttelegraph.co.uk/opinion/columnists/frances-burscough/article29941837.ece/c19f3/AUTOCROP/w135square/Burscough.jpg)
If only I knew then what I know now
I've been invited to appear on a chat show. It's for BBC Radio Ulster and the presenter, Vinny Hurrell, will be asking about my life, my choices and what I wish I'd known when I was 25.
I've been invited to appear on a chat show. It's for BBC Radio Ulster and the presenter, Vinny Hurrell, will be asking about my life, my choices and what I wish I'd known when I was 25.
I'm thinking of writing a book. It will be based on actual conversations with my dad Frank over the last year while I've looking after him at the old family home. Just to remind you about Francis Burscough the First; he's an 84-year-old retired dentist. He's a widower (mum died 10 years ago), he's got a bad back and two replacement hips, plus a heart by-pass, so doing anything very active is out of the question. As a...
A new fashion trend is doing the rounds for Spring/Summer '17 which, as fashion commentator for the Belfast Telegraph, I feel it is my duty to bring to your attention. Jeans with windows. Yes, you read that correctly: Jeans with windows.
We had a party recently in Preston to celebrate 50 years since the Burscoughs moved into the family homestead on Black Bull Lane. At one stage, 10 of us had lived there simultaneously — mum, dad, John, Louise, Chris, Jim, Me, Marie, Rachel and Lucy — but now it’s just dad (who’s suffering from Alzheimers) and whoever is staying there to look after him. We decided to make it a fancy dress party, and...
In last week’s column I revealed my obsession with TV crime dramas. So I thought that this week I’d share with you some of the evidence I’ve uncovered during my fingertip search of the TV schedules.
Not that I'm a couch-potato or anything, but I've noticed that in the first six weeks of the year there are often so many TV dramas appearing that you could stay up til midnight every night catching up on 'catch-up'. Fortunately with a little bit of jiggery-pokery with the red button on the remote control, the invaluable 'plus one' channels, iPlayer, More4 and Sky Plus it is possible to co-ordinate your...
A recent study has suggested that pet dogs are losing touch with many of their basic natural instincts. In one test, for example, researchers at Oregon State University presented a 'puzzle box' containing food to a group of dogs and a group of wolves.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind, here's my festive line-up of crazy celebs as reported on these pages over the year 2016, for the sake of auld lang syne...
Twas the night before Christmas...Yes, the moment we’ve all been waiting for is nearly here and all that remains is ...er ... the complete chaos of a typical Christmas Day.
My mum died ten years ago today. I've spent the day reminiscing about her and also remembering what we were all going through at this time a decade ago as she slipped away.
The little kitten was only about ten weeks old when when she was found abandoned, crying and alone under a hedge in a street in Co Antrim. She was soot black, but her fur was coarse and patchy in places from ticks and fleas and goodness knows what else she'd had to endure since she'd been thoughtlessly discarded; she had black paws, ebony whiskers and amazing eyes the colour of liquid amber...
Making a traditional Christmas dinner for a family is no mean feat. I should know, I've done it single-handedly for the past 13 years and it's exhausting. It's not just the time that it takes and the attention to detail that is required, but also the sheer expense of doing it right with all the trimmings that everyone expects.
Michael Jackson had a hit song in the early Seventies when he was still just a sweet wee boy. It was called "Ben" and the opening lines went like this:
We need to talk about Walter. Walter is my third and youngest dog. Although he is now six years old - which makes him 42 in dog years - he still looks and behaves just like a puppy.
I'm no expert at American politics. In fact (to use the the state-side vernacular) I know diddly squat about it and the little bit I do know don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. However it is pretty clear for all to see that the Republican candidate is a bewilderingly...
It's a great shame, in my opinion, that Halloween has become the huge commercial event that it is today. Like most age-old festivities the original and true meaning of Halloween is lost nowadays, replaced by a sea of regulation orange and black tackiness emblazoned across every high street window.
I'm just back from another trip to England to look after my dad, and I could not have picked a better time to be there. Early Autumn,my favourite time of the year. Dad still lives in the home where I grew up - a big, imposing, red brick detached house at the top of a hill on a busy road in Preston, Lancashire. From the outside it looks like a Catholic Parish Hall, mainly because of the statue of the Sacred...
Being a freelancer has its ups and its downs. On the plus side, I'm my own boss with no-one looking over my shoulder or questioning my time-keeping. As long as I meet my deadlines - and I don't libel anyone in the process - I'm okay.
I have grave news to strike dread into the soul of anyone aged around fifty. Eighties fashion is making a comeback, so be prepared for continuous flashbacks to your worst sartorial mistakes from the decade style forgot.
It is with tears in my eyes and a heavy heart I have to tell you that our adorable dog Bailey died on Sunday. Over the decade I've been writing these columns, he has featured in so many of my shaggy dog stories; from the magical moment we first clapped eyes on him to his devastating diagnosis at the vets and all our many adventures in between.
This is my 400th column in Weekend magazine. That's seven and three-quarter years and half a million words spent baring my soul every Saturday. I know this because I'm a nerd, so I keep everything I've ever published in order of date on my computer hard-drive and it takes up so much memory that the index alone looks like the digital Dead Sea Scrolls.
If you recall, last week I wrote in this column about how the month of September always seems to bring about momentous beginnings and endings - such as my son leaving home to go to university (a beginning for him and an ending for me) and how I was dreading the onset of "empty nest syndrome". Not least because it would leave a big void in my life which I wouldn't know how to fill.
The onset of September always triggers a sense of nostalgia in me. I left home on the first of September, way back in the 80s. I started my first job at the same time of year. I was married on September 3 and then divorced almost 15 years to the day later. As for my kids, from nursery school to sixth form and beyond, every step of the way began in September.
This week marks 10 years since I started writing for the Belfast Telegraph. The column was entitled Mum Alone and it was a bit like Bridget Jones Diary except it was about a struggling single mother... and without anyone remotely resembling Colin Firth. It was only a couple of paragraphs, 500 words or less, which appeared at the bottom of a page in the Saturday's paper.
A report was published last week which presented some truly shocking statistics about our dependence on technology. It seems adult internet users in the UK currently spend an average of 25 hours per week online. Imagine that - more than a whole day surfing the net which, when you add it all up makes approximately 55 days out of every year.
I've been in England all this week, looking after my dad, who's 83 and slowly succumbing to old age. Or, as he puts it, he's "losing his marbles". We first noticed something was up a few years ago when he went into town in the car but then came back on the bus. He'd forgotten where he had parked the car and so he just came home without it. My sister and I spent the rest of that day driving through...
By the time you read this, all being well I should be availing of some alfresco revelry at the event of the year they call Sunflowerfest. It's been an annual date in the Northern Ireland calendar since 2010 and I've never missed it because it is such a fab weekend.
A new tv drama started last week. It tells the story of a terrorist cell operating in London, bent on bringing about the downfall of the government and unleashing chaos in society at large. They meet in the back room of a shady porn shop in Soho where they compose and print anarchistic leaflets while planning future attacks in and around the capital.
It has taken five years from first diagnosis, but now Bailey my beloved 12-year-old dog has gone completely and irrevocably blind.
A survey has been circulating on the internet this week. The Top Ten Things That Men Find Most Annoying About Women. Ok, I agree, It’s not very high-brow nor is it intellectually illuminating, but it caught my attention and offered a bit of light relief from all the bad news of the day.
Fledglings are everywhere at the moment. Glance out your window or take a stroll past some trees and you’re almost certain to see or hear one. They’re usually smaller, fluffier and paler in colour than an adult bird, and a lot noisier too.
Writing a thousand-word column every week isn’t easy at the best of times. But attempting to do it from the deck of a ship on a dark and stormy night, for a nine-hour voyage, while chaperoning three restless dogs, one of whom is blind and another is travel sick, has to take the proverbial biscuit.
Tomorrow is Father's Day and so I'd like to dedicate this column to my own beloved dad Frank. I've done the same thing every Father's Day weekend since I started writing for the Tele 10 years ago, but I'll never run out of stories.
There is one sound that heralds a twenty-first century summertime more than any other. And no, it's not the hypnotic sound of buzzing in a bee-loud glade; nor the gentle clack of croquet on a lawn; nor the distant sound of a transient cuckoo -"Shall I call thee 'Bird', or but a wandering voice?" - It's not even the guttural grunting of tennis players whacking a ball at Wimbledon. No, it's none of the above.
A new 'gallic noir' started last weekend on BBC4 and within minutes of the closing credits the social networks went into analytical overdrive.
Harriot Harman, the staunchly feminist Labour MP, thinks that the Kardashians are feminist role models. When I heard her on Good Morning Britain I nearly spat my coffee out.
It doesn’t seem very long ago since I was writing an article about the decline of local shops in favour of giant out-of-town retail parks.
I had an amazing experience last week, which I’ve been dying to tell you about ever since. I finally got to spend a day on Rathlin Island, something I’ve wanted to do ever since I moved to Northern Ireland 20-odd years ago. And I have to say it was worth the long wait. In fact, it may very well prove to be one of the most memorable days I’ve ever had.
I learnt a valuable lesson last week when I crashed my car on the outskirts of Belfast.
The weather may have been wintry all week, but as far as our wildlife is concerned, spring has definitely sprung despite the unseasonal chill.
I have learnt so much since I became a part-time carer for my dad last autumn. Not only about the problems or the rewards of this huge role reversal, but also about myself and how I deal with the daily challenges it throws at me.
One thing you don’t know about me: I’m an expert in the kitchen. Or at least I ought to be, with the number of cookery programmes I’ve watched over the years.
In my capacity as a “crazy dog lady” I may have failed miserably at training my dogs to do the usual things such as “sit” (they stand there, looking at me blankly) and “stay” (they stand there, looking at me blankly, then run away) but I have managed to teach them to type, use a laptop and negotiate their way around the World Wide Web.
Who can forget the day when Rihanna first came to Northern Ireland? I certainly can’t. I got inadvertently caught up in the chaos as I was driving home from Belfast to Bangor that day, in late September 2011.
I was delighted when it was announced six months ago that the Government were going to tackle and prosecute 'cold callers' who target the elderly and vulnerable. All I can say is, they'd better get their skates on because, if anything, it's got worse this year for my poor old dad.
Happy Mother’s Day for tomorrow! I’m spending it on my own for the first time this year, so to mark the occasion, I’ve written a poem especially for all of those like me, whose kids have recently fled the nest:
At the time of writing this, my son Finn is taking part in a top-secret mission involving the Government, the police, local authorities and assorted politicians. Seriously.
But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? Could it be the dawning of the most romantic day of the year, when love is in the air ... it’s all around us ... it’s written in the wind?
They say cats have nine lives, but I think certain dogs do, too. Bailey, the oldest of my pack of three, is definitely one of them.
My 19-year-old son passed his driving test in November and then — coincidentally —a week afterwards he starred in that latest DOE advert about reckless driving among teenagers. In the last scene you see him and his group of mates trying in vain to escape from a crashed car as it sinks to the bottom of a lake. If I wasn’t worried enough about him as a fledgeling driver before then, seeing my worst nightmare acted...
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