Category Archives: Writing

A Hunger Artist

Carry on coughing. All the way the the coffin. Alternate that with sleep which ends whenever sweating becomes too uncomfortable or the dreams of Doctor Who stuff (which I love) are interrupted by anxiety shit about losing my car or … Continue reading

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The Hardest Thing In This World Is To Live In It

First jet lag and then days and days of what I hope is just a terrible cold and not yet another flare up have thrown sleep patterns into chaos and dampened my mental faculties. As it is I still can … Continue reading

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Vain Lines Dawdling

Some believe that travel changes a person, that faraway sights and starry nights on distant shores can imbue pieces of the world itself into the soul to forever bind human and planet together like tree-trunk and ivy. If this were … Continue reading

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Move Him Into The Sun

The morning is crisp like an unbitten apple, waxy sunshine not quite reaching down to the bones. Beneath my feet the artificially aged floorboards of a wannabe hipster cafe which is nonetheless occupied by non-hipster middle-aged spreads and mumsy mums … Continue reading

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So I Turn Myself To Face Me

The Diana anniversary stuff interests me in an entirely personal as well as a wider cultural sense as it reminds me that twenty years ago I was in the cusp of a huge emotional and mental breakdown which was to … Continue reading

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To Boldly Split Infinitives…

Voicey croaky continuey. Croak croak. I am not a frog. I may or may not be a salamander. They croak too, don’t they? Scaramanga, salamander: only one of them tried to assassinate James Bond but it didn’t have a re-growable … Continue reading

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Smoke And Goldeness

My sore throaty voice place continues to make me sound like I’m having my larynx scraped by tiny oesophageal dredgers, all made of razors and thorn. Allegedly this means I am emitting sexy sounds. Personally I think I couldn’t be … Continue reading

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