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 …
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 …
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 …
I hate feeling that I’m ‘past it’. That maybe, just maybe, I’m now considered ‘too old’ to be a writer in advertising and marketing. This insecurity is all in my own head. Probably. But I’ve been mulling (ooh I love a good mull) over my 25-odd years in the business, and I’ve noticed a running theme. Good …
I just re-read a book by accident. It was Stephen King’s Misery. I don’t read horror books any more (I still watch horror films though). So, I was just looking through one of the many boxes of books I still haven’t unpacked since moving house, when Misery kind of fell into my hand. Then it sort of opened. Then my eyes started reading …
I am in one of those stupid defeatist moods where I keep typing stuff then deleting it. The Inner-Critic is on my shoulder poking and laughing at my blog entries and calling me a pretentious twat. Or else he’s yawning and saying how boring it is. Criticism. It can make you improve. Energize you to do …
Sir Nicholas Winton died this week. If you want to know who he was and what he did, read a bit about him at The Power of Good. He rescued around 669 children from the Nazi death camps. It was only when his attic was being cleared that the story of what he had done became …
I have some new snippets in my collection if you’d like to glimpse briefly into other people’s worlds for a moment. Bus Stop Snippets
My blog has been sadly neglected. Poor little bloggy. Moved house. Moving on. Saying goodbye to some things. It was quite cleansing to unburden myself. Going through piles of papers. Throwing out crumpled cartoons, wrinkled pages of writing, years and years worth of diaries. It’s like taking a weight off the mind or soul. I mean, if you haven’t looked at …
I saw the birds perched in a tree at the end of the road. Black bird shapes on black branches, settled in silhouette against the cold white winter sky. I count 10. I think there are 10. What is in their minds? I know birds cannot be said to have consciousness of self in the …
the crone 