All relative

On Sunday I have a trail running race. So this lunchtime I went for a final taper jog; a gentle half-hour, three-mile leg-stretcher. The sun was out and my music was great, so I just bobbed along in my own little bubble.

When I got home, my body said, “Nice warmup! What are we going to do now?”

I hadn’t broken into a sweat, my heart rate was barely up and I wasn’t even breathing hard. In fact, apart from the usual post-run glow, it was almost as if I hadn’t done a thing.

My Life In Dust

Her at number 53 thinks me as some sort of lower class personage, just 'coz of what I does for my weekly wage. Whilst Rev. Kirkman says he puts me right up there on one of them pedistills like he does with our lord's boy Jesus. I thinks that it is sorts like me what this world thinks it can do without but can't. We are the shadows that no one really notices, yet every office has one or two of our likes, mollying around after hours, putting the papers in the bin, the plugs in the plug holes and changing the tea stained surfaces to look likes they been bought brand new like.

Definitely non-fiction

I realised something today: I'm shit at fiction.

Give me an autobiographical topic, and I can whittle on seemingly endlessly about the weird, wonderful, wonderfully weird and weirdly wonderful aspects of people I've met, situations I've found myself in and the ova I inadvertently yet almost invariably got on my facade. The words, lines, paragraphs spill out onto the page cathartically and I will lose myself in the minutiae and absurdity of my predicament and the inevitability of my embarrassment.

At the hairdresser

I should have known better than to go for a haircut on a Tuesday. That’s the day when the experienced coiffeurs, exhausted from their Sunday and Monday off, leave the salon almost entirely in the incapable hands of their trainees.

It started as it always does, just inside the door, with the standard, raised-eyebrow look that said, “What can I do for you, Sir?” To which I replied, “I’d like a baguette and four croissants.”

Last Word

Sometimes you win and sometimes you lose.  Sure you can do things that may hedge the bets in your favour but at the end of it all, it is just a game of chance.  Such is the life of a gambler...and, no, we ain't talkin' cards or dice here.  We are talking lives.  A life on the line is the ultimate gamble.  Whether it's your own life or someone else's, it all amounts to the same thing.  A life lost is a life lost.  You die and it doesn't matter any more.  You kill someone or are somehow responsible for them losing their lives and you ultimately have to deal with that on your conscience for the rest of your matter how short it may be.


Deflation, defloration, deforestation, devastation, discombobulation.
Inflation, infatuation, infestation, infiltration, incantation.
Reflation, reformation, reaffirmation, regurgitation, reinitiation.

The hamster got off its wheel and wondered whether this was all its life was about: get on, spin, get off, eat, shit, sleep. And maybe pee. The drunk peered down into her empty glass and considered ordering another. Yet another? Why not? The butterfly landed on a flower far too delicate to hold such a body. And promptly slipped off. A hand reached up and stroked the chin that should have been shaved two days ago were it not for laziness and its owner's penchant for the scratching sound his daughter's fingers made as they dragged across her maker's stumble. A fading, yellow PostIt note sat on his desk declaring "Tuesday!" urging him to do something he had long forgotten what it should remind him about. The grass rustled to itself, content that it had fulfilled its purpose and was being watered for its efforts.

At precisely that moment, the sailor looked up as one tiny cloud passed in front of the sun. "This is it," he thought. "This is finally it. I have all that I need."

A six-year-old amused himself blowing up a polka-dot red balloon and letting the air out again. In, out. Inflation, deflation. Incantation, discombobulation. Reflation, regurgitation.

Yes, no. Indeed.

Horseshoe Harry

Horseshoe Harry claimed the distinctive red spot on his face was a birthmark, but those who knew him as a young man - amongst whom I may count myself - beg to differ. 

We remember all too well the prank he tried to play as a 15-year-old, dressing up his neighbour's donkey in a tutu and his Momma's bra. He succeeded in this first part, but when he then tried to climb on the unfortunate animal's back from behind, it gave him such a kick in the kisser that Harry was left scarred for life.



That's the sound that bagpipes make. It's true. I have it on good authority: it's what I dreamt. And I wrote it down the moment I woke up so I wouldn't get it wrong.

So "wamperwamp" it is, whatever else you think it might be.

Platform K, 10.48pm

The metal bench is cold and hard, but he’s too tired to stand.

He checks his watch. Two minutes. 

A chill wind blows down the exposed platform, prompting him to pull his collar up tightly around his neck. Should have worn a warmer jacket. Hopes he won’t catch a cold and have to spend another weekend in bed.

Je suis Charlie

Eyebrows: Mirror to the History of the World

"Strong eyebrow game, bro."
But it wasn't always that way.
No, the eyebrow (or purpose thereof) has evolved over time.  Closely linked to key events in human history, the eyebrow has it's own story to tell.  From times of yore to the present, the brows have most certainly reflected the culture and values of the day.
In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth but it wasn't until he proclaimed, "let there be light," that eyebrows became necessary.  At that time man was forced to hunt his prey under an unforgiving and extremely bright sun.  His saving grace was nature's sun visor that perched proudly above his eyes in the form of a magnificent unibrow.  It was that unibrow that allowed humankind to survive and prosper in harsh climates.  Shielding eyes from the sun and providing shade for children to gather under, the eyebrow had made it's stamp on human history.

Why I Hate Purple

Why I Hate Purple

Inter planetary space hopping is my daily grind. One alien sphere to the next selling my wares. Trinkets from the old town of Yargul bought for a handful of yogs, sold to the artisans of the Joshka city for my body weight in yogs.

In defence of blunt instruments

Blunt instruments get a bad rap.

Bedevilled by writers, blunt instruments are forever being placed at the scene of the crime, used to bludgeon an innocent victim to death, to dash in someone's brains, to end a life precipitously, prematurely and no doubt brutally.

Never are blunt instruments portrayed in a positive light. I mean, when did you last hear about someone snuggling up to a blunt instrument, about a blunt instrument saving someone from mortal danger, about the happiest day in a person's life involving a blunt instrument? Not once have my children requested a blunt instrument for their birthday or Christmas, nor - callous as kids can be - have they ever expressed a wish to one day be blunt instruments themselves.

It was a dark and stormy night ...

Rain spatters against the window, hurling itself against the panes like an unbidden visitor determined to gain admittance. 

The moon, shielded from illumination by the combined presence we call our planet, casts a thick, impenetrable pall broken only by the occasional street lamp and passing car. Other than that, the gloom is complete, the world has disappeared.

Which Ear Is Your Favourite?

Clarice Starling
16 Ericson Place
New York

Dr W Graham
935 Pennsylvania Avenue,
NW Washington,
D.C. 20535-0001 

Dear Uncle Will,
Just a quick note as I had to say thank you for such an interesting, and, let's face it, memorable Christmas experience.
We will be picking up Aunty Margo from the psyche ward in a couple of weeks, they say the fits have stopped now and she just has an infrequent bout of running into small corners, but, even that little tick is fading. Tony is still playing with the present you bought him, and vehemently disagrees with Aunt Isabella stating clearly that you are never too young for a Bowie knife. He can't wait till his 6th birthday now!