Browsing category blogging


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

you cant make this stuff up

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

early in the a.m.

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

something funny

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

jaywalking, melon knees and gone with the wind

I feel like James Caan in Misery. It’s cold. It’s winter. I’m crippled and drugged. A crazy person keeps popping their head around the corner with soup and crackers threatening to do me in if I don’t ‘hurry up and finish already’. OK. I lied. The stranger’s in my mind. But the crippled and drugged

death and dumplins

When I was three I began gathering flowers from the mountainside; placing them into open caskets of distant cousins. I ate chicken and dumplings in parlor rooms beside dead uncles of other uncles at least once a month when I was five. During a wake that same year I hid my cousin, Dewey’s, General Lee

miners ladies

Country Roads. John Denver sang about them. Morning hours, teardrops and miners ladies. There are two industries in West Virginia. Religion and Coal. If you’re not a preacher you’re a miner. Or you use to be. Pa fed his family with a number four shovel. He still goes downstairs to pray … in a basement

fried chicken and a not-so-lazy e

Appalachian folk. We’re all about long vowels, pass the chicken and praise the Lord. Until we move to the city. Then it’s a little more staccato, foie gras and well I use to be a Baptist. Vowels were never a friend to me in the slow lazy way they are to some people. My primary