Erstwhile non-fiction author, ghost & freelance writer for others, finally submitting work that floats my own boat, does my own thing. I'll deal with it if you can.
Who was the Original Supertramp?
A profile of the poet and drifter WH Davies (1873–1940), who bewailed a busy world that would not take the time to “stand and stare”.
Be Alert: Britain Needs Lerts!
The British National Department of Social Scrutiny released two new infoganda leaflets this afternoon with regards to the ongoing crisis which is completely under control.
The All-Consuming Paradox of the Zen Playlist
Let us count the many ways of relaxing, Zen-style, with music. But let us first define Zen and see how it plays into the kind of music we want to listen to.
The Back of His Hand
The boy knew his father like the back of his hand. The back of his hand, the front of his hand, the father's palm connects with the boy's leg in multiple, wild swipes. He’s a man possessed by his own inadequacy. His short temper and busted ambition turn him to a frenzy of hate, barely held, with eyes that betray his fear. Nobody knows in the moment, least of all him, whether it’s fear of who he is or how far he could go. Something inside of him wants the boy to feel it too.
Close to Home
A short stretch of tarmac path curves away from the mock-ochre–brick houses perched on a low ridge. The path is at the far corner of a suburban estate of new-builds. A parade of low streetlights follows the path and peters out into the ragged fringes of development; the dog-walkers’ fields, the urban scrub and hinterland of an ancient city.
A Ringtail on the Trail of Montagu’s Harrier
I leap from a hedge to escape the nettles, arms held aloft like a poorly-controlled marionette, and manage to scare away every single living thing for fifty yards, apart from the grass.
Reading Between the Lines in Border Country
A murmuring throng, led by a rector and a red cassocked-choir, shuffles west along the narrow street on Ascension Day. Apart from the cleric, every member of the moving crowd holds aloft a withy of hazel five or more feet long as they make their way down Pembroke Street in the heart of Oxford.
Made of Chalk
A harrying gust of icy raindrops blows along the crest of England’s South Downs as blades of distant sunshine shift and spotlight the town below. It is late October and the afternoon has assumed a burden, almost a petulant sulk. With my eyes stinging, screwed up, squinted tight against a shower of tiny needles, I look for an easier path and head for the coastal strip of suburb below, leaving the high down behind.