A mum, a friend to many and I love to explore dark themes and taboos in my writing. I am an optimist with a dark side...
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Cursed stone faces
The photo I took a few months ago, of the stone faces outside the church on the way up to my daughter's school, always caught my eye, and creeped me out. I found I always had to look up at them, every time I passed by. They even inspired one of my recent short stories: 'Grotesque.'
This lockdown. This pesky, bloody virus, affecting my virility. It's not only making everyone scared and miserable, it's wrecking my damn love life. This pandemic is poking a hole in my perversions. Calling a halt to my hanky-panky happenings. Putting a stop to my sensual shenanigans.
You put the big light on as you step into the bedroom to get changed for bed. You don’t really need to, but you always do because you are scared of the dark. Not that you would ever admit this flaw to anyone, because it seems silly. A grown man being scared of the dark. It has always been the case though, since you were a wee child.
Over the way, in the giant concrete block of flats that make up Bailey Court, there is a little light that comes on at 1.15am, every single morning. It looks like a little candle, standing in the window, and the flame burns brightly in the darkness of the night. I see it as I get myself a drink of whiskey with ice, the same as every night.
I don’t know why I became so obsessed with the peephole in my solid wooden door. It’s nothing special really, just a hole in a door on a street. An average street. My life is not exciting; I am an insomniac and an agoraphobic, so I am awake through the early hours and rarely go out. The last time was three weeks ago, and that was with a close friend by my side.
The unbridled joy of being yourself
Whilst I was in the bath, I was listening to a really interesting podcast on celebrating failure, hosted by the writer Elizabeth Day. And it got me thinking about how we see failure as a dirty word, and how quick society can be to judge what they perceive to be failings; a failed marriage, a failed career path. But why are things deemed failures when life is such an ongoing journey?
Such strange little faces, those faces carved from stone. I see them outside the church building, carved into the grey rock around the door corners, or up near the guttering. I found out that they are called 'grotesques,' and as I stand beneath them, peering up into their cold eyes, I am always a bit intimidated, and disgusted, but also I am interested in how human each face looks.
I hurried out of work, knowing that as usual if I didn't hurry, I would miss the next train. It wasn't the biggest deal in the world, but I had truly had enough today, and needed more than anything to be on that train, heading home fast, so that I could shed this week's emotional crap and escape into fluffy pyjamas and a massive catch up on the soaps, whilst drinking red wine, and tucking into the tasty, cheesy, oven pizza I had been looking forward to since yesterday.
The Borderline Demon
All relationships can be tricky at times; adapting to the needs of two separate people, but try a relationship with three, which can make things crowded at times! What doesn't help is that the third person is unpredictable, hyper-sensitive, noisy, demanding, turbulent, dramatic, chaotic, destructive, and almost always impossible to please.
Twelve hours in a diner
10:45am I walk into the twenty-four hour diner located on the corner of Holly Close and Moonwell Crescent. I’ve been coming here for months, and it’s my favourite place to be. The décor is very 1950’s American, with shiny chrome and red pretend-leather seats. The booths are my personal favourite. Sunlight fills every corner, reflecting on the shiny tiled surfaces. I take a seat. I watch everyone.