Boys and girls playing see-how-fast-you-can-eat-an-orange game. Messy. Involves coughing and choking noises.
Cats with static. Minus 10 degrees.
Q: Bowel Transplants. Why don’t they do bowel transplants?
A: I don’t know. Maybe they can’t be arsed.
Re-runs of Peep Show.
The Blue Aeroplanes: Jacket Hangs
The Kinks: Dead End Street
The distance by road to south east France
Icicles: A Risk Assessment
Tom’s long johns
Stepdad: ‘A bloody wizard Christmas’
Q ‘Are you … spinning plates?’
A ‘Yeah. It’s the sort of thing I like to do on Boxing Day.’
Listening to Leadbelly
My review of Patrick Cullen‘s debut short fiction collection, What Came Between, in the Winter 2010 issue of The Short Review.
New short piece, Butterflies are the Souls of Dead Babies
at Ink, Sweat and Tears.
Thank you Charles.
This is the brick wall outside our kitchen window. It is so beautiful when the sun hits it first thing in the morning, which is why (and when) I took this photograph.
I refuse to acknowledge the ‘brick wall’ as metaphor. It’s a family thing. My mother -along with my stepdad (both over 80) – travelled from Kyrenia in Northern Cyprus via Heathrow to Hay on Wye last Thursday at the height of snow and travel chaos, in less than nine hours. My sister and her husband were not so lucky. They were due to fly back from the Canaries last Sunday but the flight was cancelled and they couldn’t get another until Friday. Nothing they can do about it, so my sister has gone off to buy Christmas cards. As she put it ‘we’ve got plenty of time to write them!’.
I’m not going anywhere, which is fine, especially now we have central heating. I’ve reviews to write, stuff to organise for Christmas and another 60,000 words to print out to add to the 30,000 words I’ve already done. Then after Christmas I’ll start revising, rewriting and generally playing around with this ‘thing’ I’ve written over the last three years. Brick wall? Me? No way…