Hi, I'm Ruby.
This is my corner of the internet.
I make things, climb things, and occasionally sit still long enough for my dad to take a photo. He built the first version. I'm the boss of it now.
The Timeline
A walk through the years. Each one gets a page of its own: a few photographs, and a line about what was going on.
Fourteen, nearly. Two ski Februaries, a Grand Prix in May, London in July, and New York twice.
Thirteen. Volleyball camp in Poland, Warsaw's old town, a Sardinian July, and a birthday at golden hour.
Thirteen. Football most weekends, a stage, a borrowed blazer, and a hammock that held.
Twelve. Sea water, cartwheels in the corridor, and a pink dress on a Sunday.
Ten. A cake with her name on it, an aerial hoop, and a shell straight from the sea.
Nine. Anything climbable was climbed, including the tree.
Eight. The year of staying in: living-room workouts in pink, tennis in a sun hat.
Seven. Face paint one day, bunny ears the next.
Six. Where the archive begins: a Sofia the First dress and someone's phone.
Adventures
Sport, water, mountains, mud. Everything that happens outside, and a few things that happen on a court.
Travel
Trips, stamped and filed. Where we went, what we ate, and who fell over on the slopes.
A week in August. Fifth Avenue windows, two separate sets of wings, and a late cab most nights.
Gray skies, good puddings, and everyone walked further than planned.
Race weekend. Team caps on, engines loud, hearing optional.
A short one in spring. The dinner reservations were taken seriously.
Four days at altitude. Snow report: excellent. Injury report: pride only. Also, Target.
Sofia nights, Borovets mornings. Two and a half thousand metres, one arena concert, and the pub at the bottom of the hill.
A November weekend. Coats out, flags up, city at night.
Windowsills with a view, a show at night, and a hotel room with room to dance.
Ten days of hat, harbour, and lunch with the sea at the table.
Old town by day and by night, with new friends in both.
A cold snap, big coats, and an ice rink under the lights.
A white wall, a sky's worth of blue pots, and one photograph good enough for the front page.
Two days in Missouri, credentials included.
Ten years old, proper skis, and a wind tunnel in Denver on the way home.
A summer hop: dressed up in Miami, airborne in Fort Lauderdale.
Concerts
Stadiums, arenas, and one old quarry above Marbella. Newest first, like everything else here.
The Narodowy, full to the roof. A golden figure taller than the stands, arches lit like sunrise, and a whole stadium keeping time on its wristbands.
Not really them, and completely them. The second London night in a row — a sun the size of the room, and nobody sitting down for the last twenty minutes.
Wembley, the arch, and the long walk up from the station. High enough to see the whole floor, which is exactly where you want to be.
Tampa, and every single person there knew every single word. The grown-ups included, which was the surprise.
An old quarry in the hills above Marbella, turned into a venue. Warm night, yellow light on the rock face, nobody sitting down.
Warsaw, dressed in white. A stage that kept rearranging itself and a stadium that never once sat down.
One man, one guitar and a loop pedal, in front of an arena that didn't need anything else.
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