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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Been sharing some lovely unintentional Ivor Cutler poems. These make me smile. “Slippers For Feet” “Five Cakes. Eight Cakes. Served With A Jug of Cream.”   If you have never heard any Ivor Cutler poetry, and you love words and absurdity, you might like to discover more. Life in A Scottish Living Room Squeeze Bees Hello! How are …

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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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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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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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