Do you ever stand, toes at the threshold of that yellow line and imagine some nutcase is going to push you in front of the train? I always do. Every time the warm assault of air whips the hair against my cheek, I cast a furtive glance over my shoulder and judge. Charcoal suit; not crazy. Blow-dry; not crazy. Skinny,… Read it
“I miss the sea,” she whispers without voice. She looks without eyes to London’s evergrey sky. A wooden arm extended as if pleading for rain. She knows that only the wind now brings her water. No breaking waves will again caress her body and transport her away. It is decades since she last voyaged to China, since sailor’s feet massaged… Read it
My mother missed the trees of London. Where we live, far away in the north of Scotland, our landscape contains only the varying blues and greys of the sea and the soft greens and mauves of the heather heaths. She would sit every day by the window of our lone cliff top house tracing the shapes of trees on the… Read it
We met for lunch, sitting awkwardly on the grass in our suits and eating bought sandwiches. I never considered bought sandwiches to be legitimate picnic food. You seemed edgy, picking out flabby slices of cucumber and tossing them for the pigeons. Afterwards, standing in the shadow of my offices, you tried to tell me something. It seemed important to you,… Read it
