The wanderings of Peter and Valerie Ball
Thinking of you so much during this tender time.
Watching the devotion and tenderness you showed your mum in her final days was truly moving. Bringing her home so she could make that journey surrounded by your love speaks volumes about the man you are and the bond you shared. You walked her home in the truest sense of the phrase.
Holding you in my thoughts as you navigate this loss. I’m here whenever you need a quiet ear or a cup of tea.
You know who you are. Thoughts from your big brother.
True courage rarely announces itself with noise. It does not need to roar to be felt. Sometimes, the most profound bravery exists in the quiet spaces—in the steady, resolute spirit of a person who looks life’s hardest trials in the eye and refuses to be broken. That is the kind of courage Anthony carries.
When cancer struck his throat and the surgery took his voice box, it demanded a price that few could fathom. The voice is how we reach out to the world, how we laugh aloud, how we share our warmth, and how we make our presence known. To have that stripped away, and to endure months of forced silence while bearing the heavy physical consequences of healing, is an ordeal that would shake anyone to their core.
Yet Anthony did not let the silence define him. Instead, he filled it with grace, patience, and an unshakable positivity that speaks louder than words ever could.
His strength is not found in an absence of pain, but in his choice to keep moving forward despite it. It is seen in the light that remains in his eyes, the warmth that radiates in his gestures, and the quiet determination to embrace each new day. He reminds everyone around him that a person’s true voice was never just sound waves traveling through the air—it is their character, their kindness, their humor, and their resilience.
Anthony has proven that life can take away your vocal cords, but it cannot take away your spirit. He stands as a living testament to endurance, showing us all what it means to face the unimaginable with dignity, heart, and true grit. To know Anthony is to witness what real strength looks like, and his courage leaves an unforgettable mark on every life he touches.
I worked with him for several years. He helped me out when I came back from Australia. He gave me somewhere to stay. Working with him was a hard lesson but an interesting ride.
I just wrapped up a week of working enrollment at Easton College, and if you’ve ever worked one of these gigs, you know the specific, chaotic rhythm of the whole thing.
Enrollment week exists in two distinct modes: absolute, all-hands-on-deck frenzy, or the kind of vast, stretching boredom where you start memorizing the emergency exit signs. There is no middle ground. One minute you’re a well-oiled machine churning through course codes, identity checks, and photo queues for nervous freshers, and the next you’re sitting in total silence waiting for the next busload of students to appear.
What made the week actually fly by, though, was the crew. I was stationed with Debs, Gary, and Chloe—a 17-year-old student helping out on the front lines. Having Chloe on the team was gold because she brought the real, unfiltered student perspective to the desk, while Debs, Gary, and I tried to keep the logistical wheels turning without losing the plot.
It’s always an odd mix of human connection and admin endurance. You meet hundreds of faces in seven days—some terrified, some overconfident, some parents who look far more stressed than their kids—and in between, you bond with your desk mates over strong tea and the shared relief when the 4 PM slump finally ends.
Glad to have survived the week, grateful for the good company, and very ready for a weekend off.
I’ve been thinking lately about the quiet, steady magic of how you love me. In the rush of everyday life, it is easy to let the most important truths go unspoken, but I want to make sure you know just how deeply I see and appreciate who you are.
Your patience with me is nothing short of a grace. There are days when I am preoccupied, difficult, or simply a handful, yet you meet me with an enduring kindness that never seems to waver. You don’t just tolerate my quirks and shortcomings—you soften them. You create a space where I can be entirely myself, safe in the knowledge that I am accepted, understood, and loved, even on my hardest days.
That kind of gentleness isn’t accidental; it’s a profound strength. You have a way of bringing calm to the noise and warmth to the ordinary moments. Living alongside someone with such a generous heart makes life infinitely richer, and it grounds me in a way I could never replicate on my own.
Thank you for your steady hand, your boundless understanding, and the quiet sacrifices you make just by choosing grace over frustration, time and time again. I don’t take a single bit of your patience for granted, and I am endlessly grateful to walk through this life with you.
With all my love and deepest gratitude,
Today I made sourdough for the first time in actually quite a few years. I haven’t been eating much bread, but this morning we didn’t have any, so I thought, “Okay, I’ll see if I can actually remember how to do it.” Below you’ll find a picture of my first white seeded sourdough.
Yesterday was the first day of a brief work sojourn at Eastern College. I was reunited with two people who I had worked with last year: Gary Sparks and Deborah McCluskey.
It’s a relatively easy job. I have to greet people as they come into the foyer and invite them to enrol for whatever course they book themselves onto. To do this, they have a letter of invitation to enrol from the college, and on that is a student number, which enables me to find all their details.
A lot of the time, there is nothing to do, but then we have spurts of activity with people queuing to enrol, and there is a feeling of pressure.
Thank you to Paul and Gilly, David and Ruth, Archie and Meheli, and of course Valerie for the fantastic 75th birthday dinner. They say age is just a number, but celebrating with great friends makes the higher numbers a lot easier to swallow! Cheers to you all.
Val, as usual, did amazing things or had amazing things planned for the weekend of 14th, 15th, and 16th of August for my 75th birthday and my 76th year.
It all started with a rather nice meal that Val put together with all sorts of wonderful things, and I had made Summer Pudding, which is one of our favourites.
On Saturday morning, we jumped in the car with a small suitcase and headed for Snetterton Circuit, which is about a 30-minute drive from home, to watch GT racing and single-seater racing. Having done that many years ago, it is probably nearly 50 years since I last visited a race track, and things have moved on.
Val had bought us a hospitality package which included food and being able to watch the races from a rather nice advantage position over the pit lane
See pictures at
Tonight we watched Mika and the programme The Piano on Channel 4. Amazing!
The Piano hit on something truly special, largely because the chemistry and empathy between the hosts and judges never felt performative.
Claudia Winkleman brought her signature warmth, grounding nervous amateur musicians in high-traffic train stations before they played, while Mika (alongside Lang Lang) observed with genuine emotional investment and technical insight rather than harsh critique. Instead of relying on typical talent show melodrama, the format celebrated the joy, therapy, and storytelling inherent to everyday people sharing their music in public spaces.
I’m not living without air-conditioning. I wonder how I would manage.
Currently, we are running the air con at 24°, and it seems really cool, but it’s doing the job.
O steady hum behind the plastic grille,
quiet savior of the dog days,
you breathe a glacial mercy into rooms
where the midday sun presses heavy against the glass.
Outside, the asphalt softens like wax,
the lawn turns brittle,
and the air sits thick as wet wool in the throat.
Men curse the sky,
wiping salt from their foreheads,
trapped in the shimmering furnace of August.
Yet here, at your altar of coiled copper and chilled freon,
a gentle arctic wind stirs the curtains.
You hum your low, mechanical hymn—
a steady pulse of artificial grace—
pulling the fever from the walls,
wringing the oppressive damp from the shadows,
and offering instead a crisp, crisp heaven.
To stand before your vents on a boiling afternoon
is to taste pure redemption.
The skin cools, the pulse slows,
and the mind, once melted into haze,
snaps back into focus.
Let others praise the open fire or the summer sun;
mine is a love for the metallic box in the window,
the savior of sleep, the patron saint of blankets in July,
turning the unbearable heat of the world
into a private, shivering peace.
Val and Peter Ball are ....... 