“You’d probably call me a communist.” No fur hat. No balalaika. “No. I probably wouldn’t.” A bottle of vodka in the cupboard. Some rye on a shelf. I looked at him. “Not Russian. Communist.” He carried my suitcase upstairs and left in search of duvets. —– I had answered an ad in the ‘Rooms Available’
Monthly Archives: March 2006
I like stories. Full of everything-real and colour. Small, heavy words soaked with life. Words you can’t find in a dictionary and couldn’t spell even if you tried. Words that mean more than they ought – because they’re so little and all. I want to be a storyteller. But my tone is never right. My
Pa spent the day on the mountain. Fixing his mother’s grave. His hands have kept it from sinking…for years. No one knew where he was. A man of 70. Of five heart attacks and so much more. Ma worried. She wrung her hands and waited. When he came home she asked him where he’d been?
Royal Courts of Justice. The Strand Sometimes I come here for work. A few of the halls and entrance ways are powerful and posh but for the most part, it’s all built-for-purpose and pretty underwhelming*. You’d never know, if you just came in through the main gate. All those paintings and suits of armour and
When I was 25 I spent the summer in the South of France. —– Nicky was a homeless rich kid who drove an overpriced sports car and blew his allowance on other necessities (i.e. gambling and girls). We became friends because he sometimes dated my housemate Claire, and lived in her room even when she
Lunch was air and bellinis. Three thirtysomethings and me (I’m holding tight to 29). Chaz is in PR. She’s good at it. They say she sold ice to an Eskimo. Twice. Luisa’s a banker. Investment. City firm. Chasing that £2million bonus. Julie’s the lawyer. She hates it, but she likes the money. The power. The
