Category Archives: Slow Writing


As a result of the rain
we stayed in the warm and slept
read books and listened as it fell down torrential on our roof.
‘There’s an orange warning tonight!’ she said
informed so by Accuweather.
The rain fell harder.
It permeated through one of our walls.
We wondered what state the bottom of the hill would be in
after having seen it hours earlier already aflood.
Endlessly, deluge followed downpour
I sat on the sofa in praise of my protection from the elements.
I was grateful.
Eventually – the next day – the rain stopped.
It took a day for the sun to fight back as clouds of various shades of grey and models of disarray slowly revealed the blue sky.


Although we had had chips the night before we had them again that night. Our appetites had got the better of us so the oven worked its magic on our sliced potatoes. Is there anything better than chips? The smell was golden as they sizzled quietly from the heat before falling in sturdy disorder onto our not quite big enough plates. We sat down, we ate them with dry, spicy roast chicken and freezing, fizzy-natured fine white wine from Portugal. Over and over again we groaned at the fabulous flavours, over and over again we noted how well the wine went with the chicken, over and over again we thought how good it was to be eating chips: Hot, salty, crispy, crunchy, sturdy, golden chips.

Why I bother

Why do I bother?
day after day, day after day
I see the morning sunlight catch her hair
she smiles
sweetness, strength, sexyness
She is why I bother.


‘Drink!’ he shouted. The people around the table, who were already quite drunk, drank. The next day they all questioned their actions, sat as they were, dud batteries aching with the loss of power. Later, the man who had shouted ‘Drink!’ the night before felt the cool, refreshing hair of the dog on his lips. He, and all the others who had joined him around the table again cam back to life. ‘Drink!’ was shouted, fully charged they were, toxic.


We looked up, clutching our identity; the cover of mine was faded. Faded like my blue t-shirt left out too long on the washing line in the southern sun. Faded because everything fades: Fading t-shirts, fading memories, fading empires. Losing colour, growing dim, disappearing. My passport was checked. I was moved on. As yet my privileges in this world hadn’t faded.

Hold me

Flying high like a kite. The wind, which was unpredictable, carried me. I was a bird, soaring. Why do we go on?

While flying I understand why we go on. Wisdom. I must remember this when later I am pegged down like a tent.

Brassed Off

He practised the trumpet every day and as a result greatly improved. His scales scaled and skipped across the roof tops of the town.
“Practice makes perfect, what admirable perseverance you have!” the neighbour had said to him in passing one day.
“How much longer can this racket go on?” she later complained to her husband. Although it was easier to put up with now as he was greatly improved.


I went to the supermarket and I bought: Coffee, milk, oranges, bread and tomatoes.  The tomatoes, according to recent research, could cut my risk of prostate cancer by 20%.  Sadly, I read something to the contrary only a few months ago, so I don’t know what to believe.  What I do know is that I will continue to eat them on my toast (Spanish style) for breakfast. Sometimes I grate them, sometimes I blend them, sometimes I slice them.  However they are served, I love them from my head tomatoes.

Rain Again

It rained quite a lot in the boy’s town.  He liked the rain.  He enjoyed watching it drip down windows by day and hearing it on the roof by night.  As he was quite interested in words he had put rain in his thesaurus on the computer and printed out all the results.  He decided to tick them off as he saw them. Here are the ones he had seen to date: deluge, drizzle, hail, mist, pelting, pouring, sheets and spitting.  What he was really exited about though was ticking off Cats and Dogs.


It was pouring with rain and they were soaked as they arrived at the front door in fits of laughter. ‘Magic!’ said the boy. ‘Hook, line and sinker!’ said the girl. They had been laughing so much that they hadn’t noticed the noise they had been making, let alone that they had been followed home.  Listening closely, just around the corner, the shopkeeper, with a brick in his hand, was about to exact his revenge.


Whenever I sharpened my pencil it happened.  My concentration was broken and I’d drift off into a daydream.  Flying like the pencil shavings twirling down into the bin.  Unaware.  It was beautiful, it was perfect, but it couldn’t last… “How many times have I told you not to daydream at the bin, Pedro?” Said the teacher.