This week two f**king poems about cats; next week one poem about Two Cats F**king.
You take the Low Road, I’ll take the High Road, and I’ll get to Loch Munchie before thee . . .
A short story about the memories a beautiful summer can bring. Continue reading
It’s only with hindsight that I realise what a ‘playground‘ London was for me from the mid-eighties (when becoming old enough to do as I pleased) to the late nineties; when changes started running so deep they were impossible to miss and/or ignore.
I used to scroll past half-decent posts without so much as a meh. Now it’s me doing the posting, I want the world to care.
A sad, tragic, dismal culmination of events that saw defeat snatched from the jaws of victory; the gods of genius not so much unfavourable . . . more kept at bay by a needy beast desperately determined to fulfil its own agenda. Continue reading
Following on from last week’s post, which got tweaked not once, but twice after posting, a little something about perfection:
We all know someone who posts them, but never do it ourselves . . . Continue reading