My aunt is ballsy as hell. Whether that works for her or not these days, I don’t know. You’ll have to ask. But I know I loved it when I was thirteen. When she used to sneak boxes of romance novels (Serious contraband in my house) into my room and under my bed. The kind
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Man. Wife. Boy. The Jenkins family lived on top of Toler Mountain. Fifteen miles by road. We managed it in two by climbing straight up and over. Mr Jenkins was a Holy Roller who brought the message, and a good bit more, every Sunday down at a little church in Buttermilk Junction. Mrs Jenkins made
Laura was mean and pugnacious. Not the way most children are. She didn’t play practical jokes on busybody aunts or pull the ears of annoying cousins like I sometimes did. She told families of their father’s indiscretions and then wondered aloud in other people’s company why the children were so ugly and the mothers so
Danny’s dead. He died because he didn’t want to live anymore, if you want to know the truth of it. That’s hard on a family. Knowing someone they love would rather be dead in a hole in the ground than be with them. And that’s where they all said he was. Because he didn’t believe.
It’s all good at the Italian eatery. Grilled swordfish on a bed of aubergine and sweet peppers. Two servings of spinach because it’s better than the panna cotta and I’ll take sauteed over sugared any day. A glass of Chianti. I’m working my way through the menu with the house red. Tall dark and handsome
When I was 8 and my brother 6, we dug up a dead horse. Didn’t know it was a horse, of course. Thought it was a dinosaur. Maybe one of those little mean ones. Billy rolled the ribs and the rest back home in his Radio Flyer (we found the carcass about 30 acres out
I’m drunk as a skunk and feeling fine. It’s not my fault. It’s the tablets. They’re for migraines. I only get three a month – only use three a year. They’re suppose to thin out the blood, or something. Keep the vessels from pressing against things they shouldn’t. Pain relief. All that. They cause me
She wears the ugliest sweaters I’ve ever seen. I’m not being mean. They’re really that ugly. No one would wear them in the 80s so someone, somewhere, put them all in a box and saved them for her. They’re all about kittens and nature and grandma’s old dressing gown. Made from polyester yarn and chenille.
Doctor says: Three weeks rest. Will put you on the NHS list for physio but it’ll probably be better by the time you get an appointment. Come back next Monday and I’ll write you out for the rest of the month. Take these: they’re for osteoporosis but they should help. Pop some paracetamol if you