“Mum, don’t stare.” “I’m not, dear.” she said. God. But everyone was looking at the six foot five giant wading through the grey sludge of home-bound commuters. The rain pooled at our feet as we clung to the spindly stem of my black umbrella, it shivering more than us in the wind. A Poundland Christmas present from a girlfriend (now… Read it
Joe is a writer based in East London, trying to tell stories that are like looking at yourself in a fairground mirror: distorted, stretched, but recognisably human. And hard to shave in.