bits and bats and sticks and stones and pics and pomes

Meal for One

He prepared a meal.  Calculated calories, vitamins, minerals. Chopped onions, peppers, courgettes.  Fried gently, added tomatoes.  Took salad leaves from the fridge. Allowed himself  a splash of vinaigrette. Popped pasta in a pan of bubbling water.  Timed to perfection. 


If only she had let him cook instead of filling him with fattening food!, she might have been here to share.



I have a rose this Christmas. 

Not a hothouse rose, gift-wrapped and showy.

Not a Christmas rose,  fine as it is, discreet hellebore, grandiose on the quiet. 

My rose is small and deep pink. 

I took a cutting from the allotment, before the builders developed it.

The plant lives, and its flowers cheer the winter grey, blooming through the frosts.

Spinning Wheel

In life’s casino, I play roulette. I buy my chips.

“Faites vos jeux”  I choose a number, a colour. Hedge my bets.

“Les jeux sont faits – rien ne va plus!”

With a twist of her wrist, Clotho spins.

Lachesis glances at the jumping ball.  It slows,  rolls into a pocket.

Atropos grasps her shears, lets them fall. I’ve broken even.


First two comments - "A bit pretentious" "It grazed my head in passing" 

But hey, nothing ventured, nothing gained. 


My comments: Either - An intriguing combination of the three Fates who spin, measure and cut the thread of life, with the language of Monte Carlo.

Or:  Too clever by half.

Rocking Chair

The middle-aged sisters climbed the stepladder into the loft. Tucked under a rafter a child’s rocking chair lay in two pieces.


Kate remembered the photo – she was four, holding a baby. The cloth scratched the back of her thighs.  The chair swayed.


Jill crouched down.

“That spring needs mending.”

“You could trap your finger.”


Even so, they took it downstairs.


Based on reality

19th May 2007



Black Dust

It clung to the top of the mirror,  the bath-tub rim, the ridge where tile met emulsion. He ran his finger along the wash basin. He saw it everywhere. He wiped the surfaces with a damp cloth, then the mouldings on the door.  He vacuumed the floor with the crevice tool. Gone now, but he knew tomorrow it would return.

I was trying to get an element of mystery and threat, or mental strain at least in this piece.

19th May 2007


“He’s one part temper and one part mental,” she said, pleased with the easy way the words fell from her lips.

Proverbs, sayings, clichés were her lifeblood. She’d sucked them with her mother’s milk. They helped her make sense of her world, absolving her from any effort to change. 

Sighing, she picked up the dinner he’d thrown on the floor.

Nov 12 2007