I gotta add something, I haven’t for ages so…..



There is a warm buzz of contentment closely followed by a sick sensation, and that’s the best it gets.  The truth is as I lie here I’m angry at Katherine.  After years of all her promises to kill me, she finally has.

A million Gin and lemons or Rum and Cokes, Tequila and Oranges, she’s made me so many drinks in the past.  And… more than one she’s joked had Cyanide in it.  She used to joke that she put a bottle of sleeping pills into my night-time coffee with a couple of extra sugars to hide the bitter taste.

I’m already talking as if my end is up, using the past tense.  The last time she made that joke was yesterday evening.  We’d had our Brandies as usual.  And… after a vigorous game of Dominoes – as vigorous as a man of my age can get – there were the coffees on the tray with the cows in a field on.  My mug with the picture of Susie on the beach at Sandown with the pier in the background and the tiny sail boat with a huge blue sail, it perfectly matched her eyes.

My… our Susie.  Grown-up and moved away, living with a man who works in advertising in London.  In their tiny one bed flat, with the wind whistling through either side of the double panes.  Her, sat cross-stitching, watching a soppy drama, and him… Greg, sat working on the latest buzz phrase on a million household goods and services.  He’s very good.  The ad for Emperor Cars… his.  The guy with his shirt off and the girls rubbing him with suds for..?  His.

They never have any money.  He was out of work sick for six years and couldn’t return to work in the public sector, so he took a class online, gained a degree and now, the money has just started rolling.

My throat is drying and I cannot produce enough phlegm to coat it.  This is how it starts I guess.  First a dry hoarse throat and then… I hope it doesn’t hurt, but it’s bound too.  Stomach cramps no doubt.  I bet Katherine will look at me bent over holding my belly and a smirk will appear on her vile face and every time I have ever told her  PMT was nothing will fill her evil thoughts.

She wasn’t always nasty.  Beautiful from the first moment we met.  She was waitressing in a grubby little café on Stepney Road.  Next door was a dry cleaners and the smell of chemicals was overpowering.  As I slump here, gradually feeling an unpleasant sensation pouring through my body I’m reminded of that little dry cleaners and the stench and the café with grease spread on the walls.  Nicotine stains on the ceiling and chip fat, two to three days past needing changing.

It’s strange how moments of clarity can make reminiscence indifferent to how it really was.  The café was dirty and disgusting and over-priced, yet as I rock here.  Using the arms of the chair to hold me upright as my back loses rigidity, I feel euphoria for that flea pit.  But then as I said already, is where I met Katherine.

God she was beautiful.  She owned every man in the café.  One word from her and married men would trip over their wives to get to her.  She wasn’t easy; no she was much sassier than that.  In a time with free love and experimentation with sex, she held all the cards.  A genius, the very essence of a Goddess.

I don’t want to die face down and I know Katherine wants to see into my eyes as I go, she will enjoy that.  She hasn’t moved from her chair to sit me upright.  She’s probably worried that I might lash out at her.  She needn’t be concerned, I’m too long in the tooth and I’m clearly fading fast.  What there was of me is being lost as much as 1% a minute.  Actually that is statistically inaccurate.  I probably only have ten minutes left.  What bothers me most is I’ll never see Susie again.  I always thought I’d see her have kids and them jump all over me with Clive Dunn singing in his cloth cap, that’s what I thought.  Now in my final minutes I just have to hope that the church is right.

When is too late to confess your sins?  It seems to me that God might see it as last minute and not take it seriously and put my name to the bottom of the pile of good men, below the vile dictators, rapists and child molesters, I’m screwed.

I’m not usually one for swearing, for years I tried to use any other word than a curse but it’s getting late and I’m feeling the pain.  Oh Katherine, why did you have to give me pain?  We’ve still got the hunting rifle in the hall cabinet.  One shot or two and it would’ve been seconds, not agonising minutes.  Maybe it is a spiteful reaction, maybe childish but I feel I should be sick on Katherine.  In my final seconds I’d like her to appreciate what she has done by reeking of my stomach’s lining.  If I had the energy I’d pull myself up from this floor, climb the stairs go into our bedroom, climb onto the bed and defecate on her pillow.  I’d throw up in her mini.  Pushing the driver’s seat as far as it will go, vomiting and then sliding the chair back to her driving position.  I’d urinate over her shoes and hand bags, and… I don’t know what else.

As my eyes roll backwards, I can see inside my skull, my head twists round to the right hard like a punch and grazes my nose across the hard carpet fibres. The floor burns with cold, my hands feel hot, yet clammy.  My body has sensitised itself in places I do not feel necessary.  I need a shave.  The bristles are tugging within the carpet fibres and tug at my face, it hurts.  Words become shallow as I fight with my voice.  Her name… I want to yell her name, over as my throat bleeds and I’m submerged.  The light comes in flickers, bright then dark.  Confused as to where in the room I am, has she moved me?  I cannot see anymore and noises are exploding my ears.  I can smell leather.  I want a…….

Loads of free-writes tonight, pretty much as I write them.  Short with room for improvement on every one.  Leave comments if you want, will be appreciated.

Job Interview


Wadda I know about car sales?  My answer, two words… absolutely fuck all.

Dave’s Merc and the sticky leather, that’s what I know.  So great, until needing to get out.  Then… Elastoplast.  I got  railway tracks from me knees, across me bum and right up to my… Warned, I was, about him, but Becky… she dared me din’t she?

Five Bacardi Breezers that’s my limit, an’… I can still get ‘ome.  Dave, in his kill or be killed nice blue shirt, me at eight BB’s and… well, my knickers were down, I was bent double, greasy fingers pushing mi bits, gagging as he rams it in mi mouth.  I had to din’t I.  ‘S what I always do, what I always done.   Gluey sludge is all I remember.   ‘Bout the car, the night, the afters.

Filly’s smart girl suit is making mi arse proper itchy and this ‘orrible crimpolene, shite blouse is making me all sweaty.  I feel like a right mong.

The phone call had been a dare and so had been the park and that wanker Dave; shouldn’ expect much else should I?

Mercedes Benz.  Vorsprung Durch Technik. Int that their logo?.  What d’ fuck does that all mean?  Aint gonna be questioned on that I ‘ope.

Urgh, my ed is proper thumpin’, there’s a ringin’ in me ears; an’ I got a bad belly, gurgling.

More, even more.

Things will be changed for the better

The empty streets of the city held the mystery of the previous years, ever since the public revolt.

Murkiness flooded from overflowing bins to the river, long empty of life. It’d been many years since the wild had been seen, nowadays not a swan, a duck or even a fish was seen inside the confines of the city, unless of course inside a sesame seeded bun and squirted with a tomato substitute sauce.  The only things that could be seen in the refuse of the streets were all the propaganda.  Forming new layers across the top of the pavements were all the empty promises emblazoned underneath the smiling, twinkle in eye liars, all promising a greater future that never happened.

There’d been a downturn in financial politics and after many months of deliberation it was decided that a new government for Britain was needed.

There were several candidates!  Some- the more obscure, had promised ludicrous stratagems the likes of, all tax would be abolished, the exclusion of foreign immigrants, and another party promised free fuel.  Due to the increase in prices at the pumps a great many thousands of people had voted on this zany campaign, they had not won.

George Delfont had taken over the parliament with an avalanche of victory; from his first steps onto the vertiginous glass podium that proudly sat above the river he had delivered a speech so ingenious that any confidence man in the world would take pride in repeating.  His obligation to the public, he swore would be of fiscal and physical advantage.  He had promised greater services, which instead of running like private sector businesses would be controlled primarily by his specially groomed ministers in the cabinet.

In the months before the emergency election had been demanded by the public, the state of the nation’s public sector resources had reached critical.  Patients in emergency situations, bleeding or vomiting, were returned to their homes and placed on a database which informed them by email as when they could expect to be treated by a doctor.  Many had died!  The other public funded institutions collapsed in a financial free fall. The number of school leavers who achieved an exam grade pass was 1 in 175.  The prisons were filled to bursting and the police spread so thinly that criminals could wage war against them; the news fraught with images of riots.  There were many battles, many the law lost.  The environment was almost destroyed, with public funding cut too minimum, rubbish collection diminished.  Weekly pickups turned into fortnightly and then monthly until every corner of this once beautiful land was smeared with the grease strewn from non biodegradable effluent with the biggest capitalist images drawn across.  The countryside stank as the sick poured into the hospitals.  Disease enveloped the populous affecting not only the poor but the rich to.

The few days before Christmas, when the streets should be filled with a happy red faced bustle, were silent.  Few ventured out into the cold to the horrors and it had seemed as if the great holiday would be cancelled, but what happened was equally more alarming.

A group of young ‘freedom fighters’ had entered the city and lit the fuse (metaphorically).  With several hundred thousand angry followers the men had stormed Downing Street and even after several casualties had covered the front pages, the Prime Minister’s security had been unable to keep from the masses from attacking the sovereign head of state.  It was a dark day for world politics.  The main structure of the Prime Minister’s offices and London residence were destroyed, the south wing collapsed under the assault, this fuelled the protesters/freedom fighters/anarchists.  There was dancing in the streets and the police were powerless to help, although it had been rumoured that some had joined the charge.

Across every breakfast table in the world were pictures of the ruined home of the prime minister, still smouldering from the assault.  The Prime Minister himself fled to a secret location fearing for his life.  The celebrations had started there on the street outside no. 10 and spread faster than the internet even faster than phones to every home in the land.  Bells were rung in the chapels and a throng took to the streets in celebration. The four men who instigated the revolution were branded national heroes.

Christmas passed smoothly and even though the hospitals were over run and the streets were strewn with litter, optimism was the buzz word.  In a reversal of fortune the Prime Minister went from head of state to the enemy of the British public, several vigilante groups swore vengeance.  It was publicly announced at a huge open air concert on behalf of the Health Service (all profits to go towards) that a new government must be implemented and a change must be installed.  March 12th would be the date of the election.  Online sign up registers were inundated with new voters, people who never cared before gained a voice and chose.

Knock, knock, knock.

The tapping on his door awoke Patrick from a restless sleep as in walked Helga with his morning cup of coffee.  He’d been there all night again.  Around his desk and across the floor were balled up paper notes and on his screen in front of him a layout of his interview with the man himself George Delfont!  He’d been very careful to make the facts unbiased; he did not want to be seen as a disciple of the criminal who laughingly still called himself Prime Minister.  He wasn’t!  Officially he was the President of England and its colonies, since the removal of the royal family, ally to the worlds most wretched leaders and as a result opted out of the European community.  How could he say anything decent about the man?

Helga unaware, bounced joyfully across the threadbare carpet passed the wind whistling through the shattered window and placed his coffee in front of him.  She smiled infectiously, yet Patrick had worked with her for 2 years and so just scowled.

‘Morning Mr Stressy, how are you today?’  Her insolence annoyed him greatly, here he was a thirty something successful journalist honoured with writing a report on the man in charge and she belittled him, he guessed she was too young to understand.

‘Good morning Helga and how are you?’  Fakely smiling he looked upon her.

‘Great thanks boss.  I went out last night with my girls and did we tear this town apart.  I mean we got wrecked, and you know I didn’t vomit once!’  She stood beaming proudly, awaiting  a reply with eagerness.

‘           That’s great!  Now perhaps if you can get on with your work.  I’ve got the Prime Minister’s press secretary calling to arrange a meeting around ten so I need you focused.’

‘Will do chief.’  Standing erect she snapped her heels together winked and stretched into a poor imitation salute.  With that she walked back to her desk and began the work he’d asked her to complete yesterday.

She made a great cup of coffee and always wore cute little outfits; this was enough for Patrick not to dismiss her, shallow as he was, plus he hated interviewing new applicants.

Since the unemployment figures had hit 6,000,000, anyone who entered his office was potentially likely to rob him.  His wallet  hidden beneath the floor in the corner of the room, so he never carried his identity or more money than he needed and he never made cash withdrawals from machines with less than six CCTV cameras adjacent.  Unfortunately this would sometimes mean he would have to go several days without money because someone had ripped a machine from the wall.

Ten o’clock came and passed and there was no call.  At 12.45 Patrick rose from his desk and made his way towards the door.  He looked dreadful, unshaven, greasy hair moulded to his face, with the look of too many nights spent at his desk evident.  Not a small man he squeezed clumsily through the door and into the hall, his body constantly moving as he stood awaiting the lift.  He could if he’d wanted, walked down the stairs he could even run if he wanted but he was far too busy to be exercising so he shuffled his feet across the street into the bakery/supermarket/vetinarians/estate agents and ordered his lunchtime special.  There was nothing special about it.  Always the same tuna and rocket salad, double chips and ice cold milk.  Although they didn’t look it these were luxury items!  There were no more independent businesses, only multi nationals.  Since the destruction, the country had been swooped up by the large chains and now, they controlled everything.  Fresh produce was unheard of and everything was branded, even chew sweets had advertising on them now.  Patrick sat in the window next to the line for the opticians department and ate his almost flavourless tuna drenched in a salad dressing not dissimilar to oven cleaner.  He would always tell himself it was the healthy option.  At least he didn’t opt for the artery clogging monster burgers with all the trimmings.  So he had the chips, but there was no alternative, it was either chips or cake.

Finishing his meal he picked up two custard filled donuts, paid and made his way back.  As he entered his office he could see Helga talking into the phone using her most alluring voice, she practically growled her message.  It was of course the press secretary.  Having waited at his desk all morning he’d got the call whilst he was out, cursing himself for not eating at his desk he picked up the extension and spoke.

‘           Yes Minister this is Patrick Randolph.’  The Minister after a second in silence, coughed and spoke.

‘Oh good.  It’s a terrible annoyance but most people don’t seem to have working phones anymore, except the one they keep glued to their ear everywhere they walk.’  He chuckled to himself then re-coughed as if to reconfirm his importance.

‘Well…quite Minister.  I personally, rarely use my mobile or carry it on me for fear of a mugging.’

‘           Yes indeed.  There certainly are a lot of unsavoury characters around.’  Patrick moved the receiver away from his ear to avoid screaming back at him ‘yes and it’s all your fault, thanks to the new government the streets are never safe, vandalism and theft are commonplace.’  He didn’t, he quietly composed himself before continuing.  The Minister, quite unaware of the other man’s disdain, could be heard muttering to someone in the background ‘I think we’ve been cut off, it’s gone silent.’

‘Hello Minister.’  Patrick continued.

‘Oh there you are.  The PM wants to talk to you about this article you’re writing about him and make sure that you discuss your findings with him.  He wishes for you to interview him tomorrow as he has important business with all the EU lot over on Friday.’

‘Yes sure Minister, erm what time?’

‘Be in Parliament approach at eleven am.’  With that he hung up the phone.  Patrick was quite shaken by the call and more than a little angry.  How this man, a glorified secretary could dismiss the European summit as un-important.  Placing the box of Donuts in front of Helga he took two for himself and walked back into his desk and slammed the door.  Unsure what to do, he swayed in front of his desk.  Nothing more important would happen this week, month or year, unless there were a revolution.  From the back of the door he gathered his coat and made his way home to his dilapidated flat for a shower and some rest.

Patrick’s successes had not been fruitful over the last few years.  His expulsion from the tight knitted ‘England News Supplement’ had been messy, after his vicious attack on the winner of the ridiculous winner of the grossly over popularized ‘No. 1’, the latest reality talent contest.  It was of course his own fault; he hated the programme and naively believed his readers would agree with his scarring article.  His feet had not touched as he was thrown, quite literally onto the floor outside the offices.   However the greatest of mistakes that can one day cover the pages of the tabloids can lead to a 5pm phone call the next day for a mean spirited, vicious reporter to publicly and when possible privately destroy the speaker of the House of Commons.  One article led to a column in a much respected newspaper and from there the final ever report with the Queen.  The world had been stunned, how could this nothing man who spent his working days abusing the glitterati been offered such an amazing opportunity.   The truth had nothing to do with luck or talent, just blackmail.  Patrick had information including pictures of the President of ‘British News and Advertising’ who owned twelve of the national papers and controlled fourteen of the satellite channels including the highly controversial, but innocent sounding, smut ridden, Brit one – pronounced Briton.

The phone was ringing.  This was surprising, no one rang at…  Patrick rubbed his eyes and let them focus on his clock which woke him every day in a variety of different ways with different bells and chimes, and each way would annoy him.  He hated getting out of bed at all and to be woken at three thirty six was infuriating.  Sleep was a luxury he did not usually have, never had.  Every night the worries of the world invaded his thoughts and… every night his thoughts always turned to Sally and her trial.

For months during Sally’s trial he’d been by her side.  She had said she was innocent and he had believed her.  Things had been going fine, and then she no longer appeared in the court-room.  Her cries of fear 2 am calls had stopped.  She no longer attended the common and her car had stayed outside her home.  Both the car and the flat now residence of someone new.  There were so many stories of where she went, where they all went.  Not on the news of course, in the whisperings of the public.  No one knew, she disappeared.

Patrick lifted the receiver preparing himself for a rant, he was going to make this person pay.  Before he had a chance to speak, a voice said in a hushed voice as if whispering ‘Mr Randolph, I suggest you turn on channel 164.’  Then there was silence, no hello or sorry to wake you, just that.

Fumbling for the remote he switched the set on and made his way arduously through all the channels, first it was entertainment with the usual concoction of useless cretins desperate for fame and fortune, then lifestyle with shows with debt advice and how to make a pound feed a family of four, music, oh how he hated the music, talentless nobodies with no musical talent who couldn’t even play one note and finally 164 Urban News.  On screen was the interview he’d recorded with the American Minister for International Affairs, or MIA as he was unofficially called, over three weeks ago.  He let out a little chuckle as on the screen it had in bold LIVE.


End of the year.

So little time left of Christmas. A whole year waiting, even, sometimes, un-enthusiastically and in the end over so quick. All the ideals set inside my head weren’t quite reached. We tried, but, as always, the expectation was much greater. Christmas is supposed to be magical. There aren’t supposed to be arguments and chores.

Life is the same because people are the same. The same attitudes, foibles, humours, mannerisms and annoying habits. None worse than me. I try to blame the pain and the dizziness but the truth is I’m a grumpy sod and I strive for perfection at Christmas – like it is on TV – and undoubtedly fail.

That is not to say I didn’t have a wonderful Christmas… I did. The love of family is amazing and getting together to have a laugh and toast a happy Christmas is great, but I have found an almost bliss playing with and stroking pets, it seems to relax me and help with the pain. I love my cat, but he is antisocial and a coward, so when he returns to us after his Christmas break at Auntie Peggy’s, he will shy away and not want to be stroked, shown affection. Jack -Mum and Dad’s dog – is a big teddy who lays in your arms, for hours and hours. Totally insane and so, so friendly. Bastian is a cuddly battering ram. Wherever you sit he is sure to destroy you, but he’s a great dog.

What else has been great this Christmas? So much, how much do you want to know? Well..

An absolutely fabulous number of presents. New stuff for the kitchen – pasta bowls, pizza stone, soup bowls. New clothes – trainers, t-shirts, zip hoodie, hat, slippers. An Amarylis (potted) a model kit, really great stuff, and me and Gemma did fill your own crackers for everyone. There were some great silly gifts for all, rubber ducks, wooden puzzles. Gemma put a Monty Python hat pin in mine.

The pictures taken this Christmas were great, Gemma is going to frame a couple. From Malc doing his ‘Bad Santa/Grinch’ impression in his Onesie, to all of us sat in a Hot-tub on Boxing Day. We all were hoping for snow so we could sit in the tub at 40 degrees with snowflakes falling.

I’ve eaten my fill of cake and sweets and smoked Salmon, Lobster, Steak, Turkey, stuffing balls, Brussel Sprouts etc. More delights in food and drink than we can imagine at home. The food has been sensational.

A bit of sale shopping and Gemma has a larger wardrobe. It’s great when she can get new stuff, ooo I forgot… we got a load of bed sheets as a pressie as well.

Had a lovely coffee or two with friends who have given more than a couple of surprises for the coming year. Moving to a new town and a very special occasion happening towards the end of the year on the other side of the world – Gemma was really excited.

Anneliese, my Niece/Goddaughter loved the Christmas story I wrote and now it has now become a Christmas tradition to read my stories on Christmas Eve. For years to come I’ll have to write her and her unborn sister a story or two. I already have an idea for next years story, which is more than I can say for my OU course. My only published piece, my poem, received a lot of praise over Christmas, often embarrassing.

Christmas is great as we get to see family and friends that we don’t see living on the island. Next year, however, we are staying at home – less hassle, less pain.

And what of the New Year? After watching Alan Carr and guests drunkenly shock the nation and fireworks blasting out of Big Ben, I say ‘what now?’ 2012… I will pass every TMA and EMA and qualify for year three of a degree – Children’s Literature. Both myself and Gemma will see a lot more doctors to make life more bearable. There will be MRI’s and specialists appointments. The jewellery is going to get bigger and better, more and more to sell and we’ll take part in a few more craft fairs. Maybe we’ll decorate one or two rooms in the flat. We will definitely extend our contract. I’m going to keep writing this blog so I can keep writing and not lose track and stop. More poems and stories. I had a poem published in 2011, 2012 must be a short story. And, I’d really like to be paid for a piece of writing. It has been so long since I’ve received moneys for work – excluding the jewellery, which is Gemma’s doing. It looks like there is going to be one or two trips abroad this year, yay. I’ve got my passport ready, bring it on. I’m going to get organized. All paperwork, appointments, MOT etc, is to be filed neatly.

That’s all I can think of. I just want to say Happy New Year and I’ll keep the information coming, to bore all one of you. Thank you for reading fan.

That’s all I can think of. I just want to say Happy New Year and I’ll keep the information coming, to bore all one of you. Thank you for reading fan.

At least I know where I stand.


So I am as a parasite.  An invasion, like a swarm of unwanted ants making an expedition towards the soft white of a Bakewell, the vulgar red of a glace cherry.


I have had many insults in my life but I am pleased to say that Tele’s way of reducing me to an alien in her Universe is quite complimentary.  I am indeed a pest.  Ask anyone who truly knows and they can confirm this, and more fool Tele for allowing me to spread my crazy musings upon her pages.
Ha ha ha ha ha, it’s too late now, for I am here.


So… what have I to say?  Surely on a night like this I should be filled with excitement for it is Christmas Eve.  The timing is now so near to the great day.  Christmas is upon us again. How did this happen? Is it just me or does everyone else feel it was Summer yesterday? Why does time pass so quickly? Can it be stopped? The way I see it is, yes it can be stopped, only one way and only one at a time.
The ritual of Christmas is already in full swing. The television is showing a range of viewer friendly films. So many Disney, so many war. Not real war films with decapitation and blood. No 15 or 18 certificate, more The Great Escape or The Dam Busters. Two iconic films. As you read those names I bet you could hear those famous tunes in your head. All of television is bombarded with adverts for items that cannot be missed this Christmas, the latest gadgets and games, available from all the usual mass-national outlets. All week it’s been adverts for perfumes and alcohol. The same adverts year after year, except for Toys R Us. Where is Geoffrey and what has happened to the jingle music? Toys R Us should be ashamed of themselves.


Boxing day the screens will be filled with ads for holidays and of course sales. Some truly insane people will queue outside the huge department stores in central London for a bargain… fools.


Not me. In the warm watching The Great Escape, that’s for me. My Christmas is going to be spent with family and my Boxing Day will be too. That’s if Boxing Day is the day after Christmas this year. I’ll be sat eating snacks and having a giggle. Maybe I’ll have a few new things to keep me occupied, maybe not. I don’t care at all. All I want is to have gotten my present buying right and get a genuine thank you for gifts. That is all, no more. But to make matters a little more exciting the family plays games and this year is going to be awesome. Qi the board game is to be played Boxing Day. You gotta love Qi, it’s such a great way to boost your intelligence and have a giggle.


So much food in the cupboards and my Mum trying to get me to eat it. She always says ‘I bought it for you’ and I have to yum it down, but I don’t mind, it’s always the best food. Tonight (Christmas Eve) we’re having Lobster. Doesn’t that just sound sensational. Christmas day is going to be the old reliable Turkey with some trimmings and a proper Christmas puddding. Boxing Day is Lamb; I can hardly wait.


Of course there will, at some point, be mention of alcohol. First I’ll be offered wine and then spirit and finally a beer. Try as they might (and they will try) they’ll aim to persuade me have a drink. It’s not I don’t like a drink, in fact in the past I have liked the drink very much, but with the painkillers one beer is all it takes to be nodding off in a corner, and that’s no fun. I want to be awake… not like now. Now I want to be asleep. I so do want to be in bed but I can’t sleep at night or in the day successfully. It’s a pained, uncomfortable nightmare.


No snow this year. Good news all round. Driving in the snow is not fun and a warm clear air will be just what is needed. Snow does make the world look like a Christmas card but it’s also a pain.


It’s difficult to be able to see everybody, almost impossible and many alterations have to be made to plans. Every grandparent and parent. Friends and family all want to be seen, to be remembered, even the dead don’t stay quiet. They talk to us and we talk back. Crazy? Possibly. Most years I leave a message for my Granddad and have a chat with him and this year was the same except for the first time ever I visited the grave with Dad. Once that’s over I always feel fulfilled, happy.


Everyone got a photocopy of my poem, Mum and Dad could not wait to show my Nan. I think they were proud of me, this is an unusual sensation, maybe if I keep writing, one day I’ll be proud of me.


With the kettle on, Caffetiere ready with the Caffeine injection I’m sat writing this blog and thinking what nonsense to write next.


Outside there is a flickering of hundreds of little bulbs, pinned to gutters and window frames. The dark nights of December sparkling. The rain has stopped and there is calm, soon I shall head for my bed.


We are ready. Cards are written, presents wrapped, cupboards stacked full of treats, Christmas TV Quick on the sofa, bottle of wine being chilled, cheese strings and triangles and sausage rolls


Santa is making his last preparations, his elves loading the sleigh ready for a huge delivery. And as he does I sit by the gas fire and watch the dog have a fit, thinking about TMA02 and the miracle needed to finish or even properly start. Christmas is a time for miracles, so maybe I have hope yet. So much coursework to do but I’m taking at least a two day break, after that I’ll be in panic overload. Now it is Christmas Eve and I’m going to have a slice of cake.


Merry Christmas.

Haiku for you.

Cheesy title, I know, but I just couldn’t help myself.  Ever since the beginning of the A215 course I have been almost constantly (I’m very forgetful) writing down Haiku’s and I really enjoy this incredibly simply structured poetry and here are a few here now.  I haven’t exactly looked through them.  I can’t even remember most of them, but… this blog keeps expanding and I’ve got to put something in it.  I was writing Haiku’s as my Facebook status for a while, but I stopped and couldn’t – until recently – start again.

Tonight I have work

Very hard and no pay

It’s not at all fair


Well not really work

Hours sat at keyboard, typing

Still, I don’t get paid


Southern Comfort glass

Reflects inside messy room

I’m going to clean


Hot water bottle

Pressed up against my face

To soothe all my pains


‘Woke up this morning’

Was feeling so mad, so I

‘Got myself a gun’


Have a nasty cold

Blowing bubbles from my nose

Tissues running low


So much work to do

I can’t get motivated

Should get off Facebook


Many words written

Many daily goals achieved

Many for later


I cut my finger

Cleaning glass, it’s really deep

There’s a hole in it


Gray is the new black.

At this time of year with the ending, all the parties, so close every person’s thoughts are filled with the worry that can only be ‘will I be able to fit into that outfit?’  Even men, who nowadays are no longer shamed to ask for beauty products in Boots are seen foregoing another pint for respect to their waistlines.  They stand rubbing moisturiser into the palms, spend half a week’s beer allowance on spray on tans and actually have opinions on soft furnishings and wear pink.

Ah, the pleasures of living in the 21st Century.  The politically correct generation which has borne forth hatred and discrimination against the very people who pulled is kicking and screaming – although mostly the tantrum is because of the laziness gene now imbedded in us all – from the horrors of the twentieth century… But who cares, it’s Christmas, hurrah.  Every man and woman grab a glass of whatever you can, eat whatever you like, do whatever you want and say whatever you feel.  The hangover can last for the whole year if you want it too but for now it’s time to let your hair down, kick your well-trodden shoes off at the front door and strap some tinsel covered Deely Boppers to your head and dance like you’ve just trodden in something suspicious and are vigorously trying to remove your coat.

The cafes and bars are now by invitation or ticket only, and if you want to celebrate the New Year out on the town, you’d better book in February.

The streets filled with maniacal purchasers, swarming on the shops and leaving nothing but empty shelves and the staff gibbering in the corners.  Patience becomes a thing of the past as feet get squashed; elbows thrust in faces and everyone queues and queues and queues and queues.  Suddenly a trip to the local supermarket to get a pint of milk and some Chocolate chip Digestives becomes a forty minute queue in the car park, and even longer at the tills.

This does not mean that I want to come across a sour puss, far from it.  ‘Gray is the new black’ is not a description of the mood of the season.  Black does not refer to any deep seeded depression, anger or loneliness.  Christmas maybe stressful it may be annoying and it may be, beyond belief, expensive, but… it’s lots and lots of fun.

I love Christmas.  It doesn’t matter that it’s over commercialised.  It doesn’t matter that the primary reason for the whole occasion is based on a belief system that very few actually do still believe in, and please don’t disagree.  If you believe great, that’s fantastic but society itself changes all the time and with different cultures come different beliefs, these too are of course brilliant, diversity is marvellous… But for me it’s Christmas and everything that goes with it.  The excitement on the faces of all the little children and the same songs played in the shops, which you know all the words too.  There is something magical about the way that daylight is scarce and the black (reference title) covers the world, as if the clouds have evaporated and you can see far, far, far into the distant of space.  And the land shimmers with the frost and every window, gutter, tree is covered with twinkling lights and faces are red from the cold and the joy of the season.

Winter can be quite a dismal time but not around Christmas, and that’s why it’s so fantastic.  Not even just that though.  There’s the carols and all the singers who stand with big, fluffy mittens, a wispy smoke like breath escaping from between their cracked lips.  The sounds of muffled clapping marking the end and then everyone returns home to more twinkly lights and bowls full of nuts and sweets.

What can you possibly dislike about Christmas?  I have no answer.  I suppose… The famous black dress syndrome is certain to take control of a frenzy of poor women as they claw at zips, desperate to squeeze into an outfit two sizes too small so it can be torn open as they shift themselves back onto the copier at the Christmas party.  Who knows what will happen?

Family… that’s what will be great.  People not seen for months at a time will all gather together.  Presents and drinkies and all leading forward to the New Year and the promise of better things for all.  So many new beginnings sought with ridiculous resolutions held until January the 2nd.  Things may change; they may not, but no matter what everyone will feel better for it.

My kind of Poetry.

There are more than a few people, some whom I am in regular correspondence with, who claim that poetry needs to be deep and meaningful and shouldn’t rhyme.  This, to me, is nonsense.  For me poetry has to float, to almost sing and the way to achieve this feat, -even without Iambic Pentameter yuck – is rhythm and most important, wherever possible, to make you laugh.  The poetry of my youth and into adulthood hasn’t been Tennyson or Keats but Wendy Cope and Alfred Noyes, Lewis Carroll, Edward Lear, the list continues, and… the sheer brilliance of Spike Milligan, short ditties and limericks to make the sides ache.

So now you know what I like now you can see my influences in what I write.  Apologies for the quite obvious lack of iambs, anapests, dactyls and trochees – I’ve been doing my homework.


How proud I feel I could be

If I was a fifty pound note

For only the rich to see

With superior colours, pictures and indents.

Neatly folded

For upper class gents.

Not a scrappy old fiver or even a ten,

Maybe a twenty, that would be close enough,

Then again…

I want to be

The richest note of all

The one that can’t be draw from a wall.

Fifty the number,

The only number for me.

The largest number of note, half a century.

The note only banks will change.

That never goes unchecked

Or gets short changed.

If reincarnation is for me,

A fifty pound note

I’d be happily.

To pay for champagne and truffles; to give to Valet’s as tips

Looked after carefully

Without any rips.

 Why Oh Why?

Today I squashed a fly that was buzzing round my head.

I lashed out and trapped him, and then I left him dead.

I don’t know why I killed the fly, he didn’t do no harm.

With the paper I reached out and across his back my arm.

The guilt I feel inside me has built throughout the day.

This little guy, a harmless fly on his back now lays.

I know he was not the last fly that will ever fill the sky.

But still I feel I shouldn’t have killed that poor defenceless fly.

So why oh why did I kill that fly when I woke out of bed today?

He was just trying to survive, with other flies at play.

His life has been ended, taken away by me.

Left a  poor, decomposing fly, for everyone to see.

But if flies have a heaven, happy he will be.

I hope he will not seek his revenge, and come back to haunt.

So why oh why did I squash that fly that was buzzing round my head?

I don’t know why I squashed that fly; the thought will be always in my head.

I can’t possibly stop the poetry section of the blog without including one or two of the truly huge poems I have written.  This next poem is still – as they all are – incomplete, but here it is.  This poem, in particular, is a play on words.

All that’s left

As I walked along I saw a keep left sign.                                                                                                                  So I turned left and walked until I left the sign behind.                                                                                            I stopped and was left waiting for a bus, along with many more.                                                                    The bus left on time but there were no seats left, so I was left standing by the door.

We left the town centre and left into open land.                                                                                                     I reached and pressed the buzzer, all with my left hand.                                                                                   The bus left quickly and left silence in the air.                                                                                                      But I had left myself plenty of time so I was not left to care.                                                                                 I left the bus stop and walked along what was left of the road.                                                               Grooves and bumps had been left by all the heavy loads.                                                                                      I trekked left along a track, left of the river.                                                                                                              I had left my coat behind, the cold wind left on me a shiver.                                                                             On the left up ahead I saw a country pub.                                                                                                              I’d left early, so was left hungry.  I left to get some grub.                                                                                       I went round to the left of the bar, stood and was left to wait.

The bar was left empty, so to a man (left wiping tables) I said ‘excuse me mate.’

He left what he was doing and walked around the bar.

And as he did a man left and shouted out ‘tara.’

I left my thoughts of my walk and was left to decide what to drink.

When left with what food to have, I was not left to think.

I paid the barman with all the change I had left, and left to find a seat.

Where I was left waiting, for my food, to eat.

I wasn’t left very long before hot food left the kitchen.

The smell of the dishes left in front of me, left my nostrils all a twitching.

I left no food on my plate, but the dregs I left in my glass.

So I left the table and towards the man left at the bar, ‘another beer’, I ask.

I Left the bar with another pint.

Too many more and I’ll be left without my sight.

Another then another glass I left empty on the table.

My head was left fuzzy, my legs left unstable.

Left to make decisions, I got up and left the bar.

I left a smudge of my arm as I bumped along the left side of a car.

Left feeling fragile, I headed left down the lane.

And pitter patter left my shirt soaked, as the sun left down came the rain.

As a group of bikes ridden by those with toned muscles left me behind.  I was left with admiration.

And one quick look at my watch on my left arm left me to realise.  I should’ve left for the station.

I reached the station with a minute left before the train left to go.

Only to find the train was left running slow.

The train had left ten minutes late.

So I was left to calmly wait.

After left for twelve minutes, the train suddenly appeared.

I climbed on board and left out of the rain left me feeling cheered.

I left the train as it pulled up.

I left my hat on board, just my luck.

I left for left luggage.

Where I was left to explain.

So I said ‘I left my hat on board as it had been left washed by the rain.’

The man left a form in front of me which I was left to complete.

And while he left to input all I said, I was left to take a seat.

He left me with a number to call to see if my hat had been left.

So I left and took the paper, left it in my pocket, close to my left breast.

I was left exhausted as I arrived home.

Left to me were messages, left on my answer phone.

I left some bread under the grill, and left waiting for it to pop up, back and forth I was left to walk.

I left the kitchen as the phone rang, and I was left to talk.

I was left with a furious anger as all I’d left for was a cold call.

After I left them my colourful response, I left the phone back on the wall.

I’d left the bread toasting for too long.

It was left all black and burnt, and now my dinner was gone.

As there was no more bread left to eat.

I left hungry, and left towards my seat.

I was left feeling tired so I left a film half unwatched and left to get some sleep.

Left worn out, tonight, I wouldn’t be left counting sheep.

I climbed beneath the covers left draped across the bed.

And left all feelings of the day left inside my head.

I left my eyes closed long enough so I’d be left to doze off in the night.

And I was left with one last thought.  “Maybe all that’s left is right.”

And now, as it’s December, a Christmas poem I’ve been working on.

My Christmas


It will soon be Christmas, and the night is filled with a hush

Every little child, with excitement, they gush

On every street, in every house and in every flat

Young and old, together sat

A toast to the season with a glass of mulled wine

Sat round the fire, all having a good time

Tinsel draped and paper chains hung

Gold coloured coins unwrapped onto chocolaty tongues

Candles flicker the darkness, with cards placed along the hearth

The glee on everyone’s faces explodes in riotous laugh

The hour draws ever nearer, the fun has just begun

And joy is spread by a Christmas carol sung

The little ones, soon off to bed

A story and a kiss and ‘I love you’ said

Awaiting the man who makes dreams come true

With presents for all, for them, for me, for you

Dressed all in red, from his coat to his hat

A jolly old fellow with a belly plump and fat

Rosy cheeks and a twinkle in his eye

With magic he travel across the sky

Sparkling as up high he soars

The nicest man, Santa Clause

Across the globe he goes in search of all the good children

With goodness in their hearts, held within

Presents placed beneath the tree or hung in stockings

Toys and games and many more wonderful things

Then off he goes to every corner of the world

Delivering more presents to every good boy and girl

With his bright coloured sleigh pulled by his reindeer

High above the clouds, they travel the night sky, so clear

As they fly he cracks the whip and calls out their names

He cries out to them, ‘no child can be forgotten.’  For that would be such a shame

Lets go Comet and Vixen and Dasher and Prancer

Must keep going, don’t stop, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen and Dancer

Swooping across the skies and far away

To every home, a visit, they will pay

To more children half awake, too excited to sleep

Their eyes screwed up tight they keep, until

From bedrooms they creep across the floor

The tiniest raps upon the door

Parents cry out, ‘It’s too early’ or it’s too late

‘Go back to sleep, you’ll have to wait’

And the same, time and again

At 3am, 4am, 5am, 6am

Finally enough sleep is had and everyone will rise

A look out the windows to look for a white Christmas surprise

Is Frosty standing out on the lawn?

Will a sparkling landscape be this morn?

Outside of the houses will flakes cover lanterns or hanging reefs’ of holly?

A dusting of delight, flecking the sky, beautiful to see, then

Lights flicked on in the windows and upon the tree are lit

And the families together sit

Chocolate in mugs steaming

Marshmallows float along with cream in

Presents unwrapped and smiles spread from cheek to cheek

With flowing from tubs and boxes, sweets and treats

The ribbons and bows so bright with glitter

Lovely handmade woollen sweaters

The customary pairs of socks

Paper bundled and ripped open boxes

Hugs and kisses spread

And soon after, ravenous appetites must be fed

Onto the table goes the turkey roast

With more wine and beer, Merry Christmas is raised in toast

So many trimmings, sausages wrapped in bacon and balls of stuffing

Along with a thigh, a breast, a wing

Pudding with money within, custard and cream

So, so delicious, thank you Delia, you are a queen

Pull a cracker and out pops a joke and a silly hat

And everyone will have their fill, after a meal like that

With games to play, to win or lose, and

Maybe in the afternoon have a snooze

Upon waking there will be more mince pies and cakes, trifle and jelly

And the Christmas films on the telly

At the door will arrive one or two more guests

All dressed up in their best

Sandwiches and snacks placed on the table for all who want more food

With Christmas songs to set the mood

Party poppers go pop

Champagne bottles blow their tops

Couples kiss beneath the mistletoe

After not long it’s time for visitors, to their homes they go

The evening winds down after the thrills of the day

Toys and games are put aside, another time to play

And so soon the time is late and weary

With heavy eyelids making eyesight bleary

At the end of the day, when everything has been just right, it’s

Off to bed with a Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

Some work needed I admit, but no piece of writing I ever do will be complete, it’ll just get left alone.

To be continued…..

More too follow including updated versions of works that were on here.

This next one needs a lot of work.

Murderer’s wait

My heart clatters noisily

A pounding drum solo

Pulses behind my teeth

I have to relax.  Everything will be fine


For not wearing a seatbelt one hundred pounds

I cannot be stopped

Must be careful and examine

Every bulb.  Every pressure I must check


Shirt covered in blood and must be washed

The squares merge in a gloop

That grows, spreading across the floor

Chasms in the oak spread long


Will my torment last

I’m mortified by a moment’s lapse

Neither my hand nor knife did move

He fell to his doom


Upon me a judgement

My world be crushed

The coming days will be spent

Tumbling into walls


Ringing me an invisible barrier

Many long hours

Counsellors without knowledge

Into my psyche digging


For a hole six feet deep

Shiny shovel I must place

While wrapped in the carpets

I wait for the dark


Thoughts control me now

Weaved in to each other

All I can think is when

Waiting is torture


Is all I deserve

To engulf me

My brainwaves on overdrive as

In his chest the knife hilt still sticks

Crunch underfoot

As the silence of the forest

Will be destroyed by screeching of garden sacks

Dragged slowly through the emptiness


I feel inside me

Rotting a black lump

The twilight is only the wait

Now I mop and tidy, pretend and all will be OK.


Blog bothers.

I hope it doesn’t become too much of a regular thing this column, but I’d like to take a little while to go over what is infuriating me at this moment in time.  Well, when I say this moment in time I don’t really mean right now, but… generally what is getting on my nerves.

OK, as this is blog no.1 I have to start with Chronic Pain.

To all sufferers my sympathies go out to you.  Or to any sufferers of any illness that makes such dramatic changes to life, but for me… pain, it sucks.  How can it be that as simple a task as doing a small amount of hoovering and popping to the shops is too much for one day’s activities?  It shouldn’t take 14 days to get over a 10 day holiday and it shouldn’t take 10 days to do 4 or 5 days’ worth of stuff.  But it does.  And that, unfortunately, is only the beginning.

It’s unfair, I can say, that I suffer with chronic pain.  It is unfair that a great many of my friends suffer with chronic pain.  However… sometimes, things do turn out for the best and there are little glimpses of a better existence in the smallest activities.  Through chronic pain I have met a great group of people, and several of them are responsible for me continuing to write.  At a point when I had almost given up there came hope, which lead to furthering education and becoming published and further friendships and this blog.

So… my biggest gripe with chronic pain is not that I haven’t been able to work for several years, nor is it the disappointing bank balance that gets sent once a month.  No… my problem with chronic pain is the fact that Gemma is in pain, that is not fair.  And that’s the end of this moan and now on this, for now, I’ll say no more.

Really great news.

Today, December 2nd 2011 I received my first piece of published work.  A poem – which I will include in a later blog – titled Hear My Prayer.  Published by Forward Poetry in an anthology of poetry called Everflowing Ink.  This is very exciting.

I know this post is a few days before today, but it’s been a manic weekend and I’ve not been very well…

1, 2, 3, awwwww… I know it’s pathetic but true.


This is it, my first blog… and too all of my fans….. hello, anyone there?  Nope, OK.  Well someone must be reading this, otherwise I’m wasting my time and I’m not a waster, am I?