Monthly Archives: July 2013

Thinking on your feet

When thinking on one’s feet,

consider this and: Take a seat.

For when you’re sitting on your arse,

on a chair, the loo or grass,

you’ll find the answers come much quicker,

your retorts will be much slicker,

(and here’s the real kicker)

you sound a lot less thicker.


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I’d spent the last few weeks staring at the BBQ; the lid of which was still very much closed. The sun had been out but the desire to stand next to a flaming pit of coals whilst being incinerated by the fiery heart of our galaxy hadn’t really set me alight. I’d began to assess the cost of the cream coloured kettle grill against the times I’d actually cooked on it since purchased.

The last few Summers had been cancelled, what with all the rain and hose pipe bans, so if my maths was anything to go by (and it generally wasn’t) then each dinner I’d cooked on the damn thing was currently costing an average of £42.37 a pop.

I’d spent the last few minutes staring through the window; the curtains very much open. My mind snapped back from the BBQ as lightning illuminated the night sky. The puddles forming in the flooded gutter bouncing the light around the street like an elaborate wet mirror-ball.

“1 potato, 2 potatoes, 3 potatoes…” I whispered as I waited for the rumble of thunder. “7 potatoes, 8 pota…”  The deep roar ripped through the air as car alarms wailed, dogs began barking and the rain lashed down ferociously.

Curtains twitched across the road. I waved as Doris at number 16 watched the storm with me. Sharing in this moment of natural magnificence from behind separate glass. Staring, wide-eyed at… me.

It was in that moment I remembered I always slept as naked as the day I was born.



(thanks @vicmaude for the fantastic photo!)


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Look both ways

I saw a sign today that read:


Beside it a man with feet in brogues and arms in a tired looking grey blazer stood staring at it. He had a toothy smile a foot wide; a great big cheesy grin that stretched from ear to ear. His eyes however, had the sadness of a hundred lost puppies.

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Polly put the kettle on

“Polly put the kettle on.

Polly put the kettle on.

Polly put the kettle on.

We’ll all have tea.”

Polly picked up the kettle and walked over to the sink. She turned the tap and began to fill the chrome kettle with fast, splashing water. The weight of the kettle increased as the water began to spill over the brim and sploshed away down the plug hole.

With two hands she heaved it up and out over the sink, past the stove and over to the long-backed chair where Lawrence was sitting. The top of his head was clearly visible and his right hand swished through the air as he continued to hum the merry tune he’d so cleverly created moments ago.

“I say,” he called, not knowing that Polly was standing mere inches behind him, “where’s my te…”


With both hands held tightly around the handle, Polly swung 360 degrees, her arms outstretched and brought the kettle crashing against the side of Lawrence’s head. Blood pumped through the gash in his temple, spilling over the once pristine doilies on each arm of the chair. His torso slumped forward, first his chin hitting his knees, before falling completely to the waxed oak floorboards in a folded mess of human.

Polly stood watching, her eyes wide, her chest heaving. The blood stained kettle pouring water from the spout to her feet as it dangled in her trembling hand.

“Bossy Dick”.

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