She is multilingual and uses this superb talent appropriately. Talking to her father, she converses in her mother tongue. In grand restaurants she orders expensive wines in fluent French. On sun bleached beaches, Spanish will be spoken. Perfectly accented Italian resonates through designer stores in New York. Even Latin echoes[…]
Mum moved into a care home yesterday. She doesn’t care and it isn’t home. The family visitors will be greeted as strangers. Long term friends, who have their own long term issues, will send her cards that she will find hard to open and impossible to read. But tonight, after[…]
Alan cut out the article and clipped it to the pile. Craig, twenty-seven lines. One line for every three years of life. This unsettled Alan; upset him. Craig had led a narrow life, which had been padded out to 374 words by the anonymous obituary writer. Since Mary had died,[…]
‘The Magic Purse.’ That’s what my mum used to call it. The opening and closing brought me either happiness or despair. Notes, that appeared from secret, hidden compartments were transformed into ice creams and new shoes. I remember that sometimes, without trickery or sleight of hand, mum would display the[…]
‘You swear too much.’ That’s what my son said, rattling his homemade swear box in front of me. ‘Pound a word. It will all go to a good cause.’ Then he slammed the front room door. Extra loudly. The house shook. I swore at him. Twice. Cost me two quid.[…]
It started when he dropped a coin into an unused ashtray. Later, silver was deliberately separated and stored in pleasantly smelling tobacco tins. Now, on his ‘saving for a rainy day’ mission, notes from the weekly pension are hidden between pages of books no one will ever touch. His future[…]
Father never allows me to cut with his scythe. Despite the blisters on his weathered hands and his old, aching body, ‘no’ is always the answer. Today, as he stops to rest his tired limbs, I ask him once more. He runs his thumb over the sharp, shiny blade, strokes[…]
I stopped reading to check out who had taken the seat opposite. She had flowing, brown hair. About my age. But a great deal prettier. Wearing far too much make-up. If I had her face, I wouldn’t be covering it up with a layer of paint; I would be flaunting[…]
I didn’t have the sense to trust my nose. Perfume on his shirt; too sweet to be his and too strong to be mine. Touch also let me down. His heavy hand on my shoulder; rather business like than pleasure. My hearing was more loyal. I heard soft whispers behind[…]
Everything about her life is immaculately clean and tidy; apart from her two boys. She lives a ‘Mary Kondo’ existence, disturbed only by her sons’ filthy sportswear, snotty noses and those grubby fingerprints clinging to door handles. Even their conception had been clinical; no need for the mess of a[…]