The knowledge of now.

She sat at the kitchen table with a wine glass and all the what ifs, what weres and what could’ve beens floated in the glass and the bread began to rise. She thought about the summer of 1956. But actually it was difficult to picture much more than a blur of an album of photographs. … Continue reading The knowledge of now.

The Night Was Teal.

  Knott laid the hot bike down gently in the knee-high grass among the night shade of the trees, shy of the flood-lit garage forecourt. He threw his helmet down. He rubbed his head vigorously, unzipped the jacket and took out the empty plastic bottle nested there, threw that down, too. He straddled the five-bar … Continue reading The Night Was Teal.

The Bristol Arm.

[I'm reposting this from a couple of years back as it's Bob Dylan's birthday today - keep on keeping on. Peace x]   Martin Kettle, formally of Stoneyclough but now resident of Penn Beacon, was stood on a table in the Eight Kings. He was taping the fourth corner of a large poster of Bob … Continue reading The Bristol Arm.

‘Brocken! – serious offers only!’

Saturday sunshine - honey on a slice of white - spreads the length of South Street. Its smear blesses nearly every pale thing. The windows in the terraces cannot help but grin. Front doors yawn on their hinges. The traffic rolls up and down in slow motion, the engine sweat beneath the bonnet; a cyclist … Continue reading ‘Brocken! – serious offers only!’