Poet Introduction Comedy writer and also write serious stuff from the heart when I'm in the mood. Without humour life has no real balance and we take ourselves too seriously. I use humour as armour against the slings and arrows of outrageous circumstance. ;-)
We sacrificed everything for you, Andrew, the private education we struggled to afford, then off to University carrying our love and hopes for your future. Then you got into drugs. All our hopes for you destroyed.” I turned away, bitter tears flowing. The man put the lid back over him.
Minerva was almost home when she was violently snatched. The man got out of the car a couple of yards in front of her. ‘Excuse me, lady, I’m lost, can you help me, please?’ His smile was broad, his accent American, his pungent aftershave expensive. ‘This darned budget rental doesn’t have satellite navigation.’ He waved ruefully at the vehicle. It was dark, and Minerva was nervous, the leafy trees stopped most of the streetlight from reaching the pavement. Weary after her long evening shift at the hospital, she just wanted a bath and her bed. She stopped in front of the well-dressed...
Have you noticed that there's a' spare uncle' in almost every group photo of a sixties or seventies wedding? He is the little man on the end, grinning inanely into the camera. His jacket cuffs overhang his knuckles and his wrinkled trousers sag over his down-at-heel shoes. A nylon shirt with a fly-away collar and an ill-matched tie usually completes this ensemble. The other guests avoid him like the plague. There’s every chance this epitome of sartorial inelegance was my late Uncle Eddie, bus driver and weekend wedding crasher. Eddie, a...
“I will not tolerate violence” roared our headmaster, thumping his desk. Billy and me got six strokes of the cane. “So much for non-violence” I muttered. I got two more. Billy and I had fought over Molly Molloy; she rejected us both. 'Boys who fight are stupid,' she said.
Councillor Septimius Snodgrass, Lord Mayor of Brazdon, and staunch church warden surveyed his Sunday lunch table with a self-satisfied sigh. Both his children had done well for themselves as he, too, had done.
‘How’s the world of the PR executive coming along Amanda?’ he asked his pretty daughter, ‘still making a fortune, are we?’
Amanda smiled demurely ‘hardly a fortune, dad, but I’m getting by.’
‘What? A twenty-five-year-old with her own business, flat and a new car? I’d say you were doing handsomely.’
His cutthroat razor gleamed ‘you raped and beat my mother, Johnson.’ Then he leapt, slashing. I sidestepped, kicking his groin. The razor at his neck I asked, ‘how old are you?’ ‘Twenty, bastard.’ ‘I left Eileen Brady twenty-one years ago. My name's Johnstone.’ That’s how I first met my son.
June 7th 2012 At last, at long last, I have the bastard where I want him. Of course, I had to be subtle, I had to let him think that this remote island honeymoon was his idea. Poor fool, he doesn’t know I even suspect him. He’s had three rich wives all of whom have died in tragic circumstances so now he’s very wealthy. Wealthy but greedy. He won’t strike until at least the second week because our joint bank account won’t come into effect until then and he won’t want any complications. June 8th: We spent all morning on our sun loungers on the veranda drinking iced tea and...