I’m reading Sally Rooney’s, Conversations with Friends and wishing I could have more of them myself. Not more friends – although one can never have too many – but more conversations. I’m having plenty of on the phone, and via facetime, zoom and the rest, but I want the meandering type, the interruptions that come … Continue reading Talking To Myself
You know you’re going mad when… You take to the skirting boards with a toothbrush to clean around the cracks. You panic buy a 65-inch smart TV. You decide Barry Manilow really does write the songs that make the whole world sing. You look forward to C. calling you to talk for an hour about … Continue reading You Know You’re Going Mad When…
I passed a man on the street this morning walking towards me with a cardboard box over his head. It was a huge one. I can only guess at what it once contained – a microwave oven or a shipment of bananas or a consignment of flat pack garden furniture – but this morning, as … Continue reading There Are Worse Things
There is a character in the comedy series Derry Girls called Uncle Colm who, as they might say in Derry, is wild fond of the sound of his own voice. You see, Uncle Colm maunders on. He rattles away, talking in that aimless, vague, drifting manner that begets a maunderer. Not that Uncle Colm is … Continue reading Maundering On
Yesterday, in the Scottish Poetry Library, a lady with a carrying voice and hair the colour of candyfloss was telling stories to a group of children. Both her hair and her voice, I discovered through close watching, were useful in commanding the children’s attention. The hair was a wig, of course, and the voice had … Continue reading Powerful Pink
I’ve never been a dog person. I think it depends on whether on not you had one growing up, and I didn't. I’m very enthusiastic about the idea of a dog, much like the idea of trip to Antarctica, which sounds wonderful in theory, but I’d never go. Nor will I ever get a dog. I … Continue reading Dog Ramble
I opened an old journal the other day and out fell a dried, pressed leaf, small and red; so dry that the edges crumbled when I handled it. I studied the entry dates of the journal to find a clue as to the provenance of the leaf, perhaps I’d picked it up in Canada. I … Continue reading Nurture Your Quirks
My Edinburgh Press 