She knits birds. Colourful and lifelike. The legs and beaks are always the trickiest parts. A golden ribbon is attached around their necks, before they are released into the wild. Earlier, she will have chosen the right tree for launching her latest creation. After dark, she cycles to the location[…]
I make the letter T with my two pointer fingers. She nods in response, without a smile and certainly without a comment. It’s our first two-way communication of the day. In a couple of minutes, when I put the cup in front of her, I might be graced with a[…]
The red suitcase trundles past again. A green ribbon informs me that it isn’t mine.A few bags are left wobbling on the circulating belt. The diminishing crowd is also beginning to wobble anxiously.My escape had been a flash reaction. Always fermenting, dreamily preparing but, until yesterday, just going round and[…]
I hadn’t written too much about myself online. However, minutes into our first meeting, I opened up like a ripped bean bag. I talked about mother’s health, second wife issues, Alan’s problems at school, my attempts to find employment, debts and the unfortunate fight with the neighbour. Clare had listened[…]
This morning, she addressed me by the wrong name. She called me Paul. That was her husband’s name. We were sitting in the garden, admiring the results of the work we’d put into our rockery. I don’t think she noticed her mistake and I certainly wasn’t going to tell her.[…]
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.[…]