the crone

opening the door to ideas

T’was the week before Christmas, when all through the land Not a creature was safe from austerity’s hand.   The P45s were placed in the OUT-tray with care, While Chairman and MD made sure they weren’t there.   At home, children nestled all snug in their beds, While downstairs mum and dad raged off their …

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I am writing poetic pieces on the fleeting joys of family life. Whilst missing out on my own family. And being a moaning haggard harridan when I do see them. I am prostituting my craft and soul for people to red line it, scar it. Chop it. Hurt it. Ah, poor me! I am but …

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I am not keen on the UK government’s decision to go ahead with a hugely expensive, contaminating nuclear power station when clean, low-cost, renewable energy seems so much more foward-thinking. By the time it’s built Hinkley Point’s technology will be almost redundant. So I wrote this — with apologies to Messrs Morrissey and Marr.

This ad has made me a bit angry today. Not just the fact that it shows the arrogance of a company (person?) who doesn’t care enough about the written word to check spellings. But because somewhere, some place, some poor uncertain, shy writer may actually PAY THIS PERSON TO REVIEW THEIR WORK. And that is very sad. …

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I suppose I ought to write something. Just so it looks like I am still around. So. Here it is. This. Also. This. When I’m feeling suitably writerly miserable, when all avenues to creativity seem blocked, when hard-fought written words are thrown away like litter, the cheery rhetorical question of this ad makes me want …

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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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Whales. Poor whales. Poor dead sperm whales, to be specific. Six of them have beached themselves on the east shores of the UK over the last few weeks. I don’t have any theories as to why they washed up. They were still alive (well, at first) so it wasn’t something as basic as their mighty …

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I follow the thought-provoking blog A Narcissist Writes Letters, To Himself so it was wonderfully exciting last week to find a yellow padded package (with an exotic San Francisco return address) stuffed into my humble post box here in the UK. The Narcissist (E.I. Wong Himself) had kindly sent me a copy of his book*. I sat down at my quintessentially English breakfast …

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I wanted to be a poet once upon a time. Ha ha. But please feel free to Open door Then a storyteller. Well, I ended up with a blog. Then I wanted to work in advertising. And I did. I was (and am) a creative copywriter. But along the way I learnt how to suffer when my creation was pinned to a …

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Lemmy. David Bowie. Alan Rickman. Sharing an appropriate salute to the past fortnight. Pic taken from the Twitter feed of @CardinalPhink. I’ll leave you with Alan Rickman’s words. “A film, a piece of theatre, a piece of music or a book can make a difference. It can change the world.” Ain’t that the truth.