What’s the story behind your nickname?
When me and my siblings were kids, it was usually our maternal grandmother who would babysit us since she lived a short walk away.
She had a small rose garden (probably wouldn’t count as a garden, really), and I loved it. I thought the white roses were beautiful, although yellow became my preference over time. But back then, something about them seemed angelic to me. It felt special and safe. Safe was especially important.
It is somewhere I can associate happy memories with from my childhood. I don’t have many. So I’ve never forgotten it.
But why bloody? Because there’s a lot of darkness that lurks behind those memories. A lot.
Bloody Roses 