the crone

opening the door to ideas

There was a zombie woman on my early morning train. Her face was a skeleton. Smooth tea-coloured skin stretched over dry bones. Milky blank eyes of faint cataract blue. Colourless dry wisps of hair stuck to the dome of her skull. Her maw was opened. Dark. Like a tunnel. The dry lips strained. Mouthing. She stared forward. Focusing …

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Sinking. That’s what I’ve been doing. Not writing. Not running. Not working. Not looking after myself. I’ve had long blank months where I could have written that novel/children’s story/poetry/comedy script/blog. And yet I do nothing. Except sink. The more I feel I *should* do something constructive, the more useless I feel. I’m drowning. I might thrash and …

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Christmas, eh. It’s all well and good if you are in a happy place. But when you’re not, Christmas is something that can push you over the tinsel-bedecked edge. “Joy to the World!” pipes the tinny supermarket muzak as you watch sad, grim-faced people gazing at boxes of SuperValu mince pies. It can feel miserable. …

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I’ve been researching the rise of ‘Pauper funerals’ in the UK. Also called Section 46 funerals, these are burials that are paid for by the local authority when someone dies alone, with no known next of kin. What struck me as I read through case studies, watched news articles and looked up Gazette postings, is that when …

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What if we could treat each day as arriving on a new planet. What if each dawn was a new beginning on our own fresh, clean world. What if the grass or stone we walked on this morning had never been walked on before. How pure and clean life would feel. Just standing, looking up into …

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Now I’ve moved house, I’m trying to get back on track with my health and fitness. (Mmmm, just seeing the word ‘track’ makes me think of a delicious nutty treat…) I don’t need it. I think I am obsessed with food.   Having a wobble   So my week pans (…mmm crispy fried bacon) out like …

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Did you read this story? See Homeless ex-pianist dies So many questions I’d like to ask Anne. Why would an obviously gifted woman choose a life on the edge? Living in a car (or on a railway embankment) must have been tough and uncomfortable. What words could’ve persuaded her to come back to ‘normal’ life? What is ‘normal’ life, anyway? Why …

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