Write About Memories Underfoot:

I remember, when we were small enough to hide beneath the shed, she did it then, too. Never any proof, of course, except the malice in her eyes, hidden from parents' view. But I knew it was her. We all did, really, but the ever loyal parents preferred to believe that I was 'mistaken' than their pride and joy less than angelic.

It's not about the things, it never was, though spending 4 hours trying to find your clean underwear, whilst you're watched in half amusement from the other bed in the holiday-cottage room, finding your new CD, caseless and scratched beyond functioning, or trying to explain why you can't lend a much-discussed comic to your best friend, is, shall we say, annoying. No, it's not about the things. It's the fact that something, some apathy, some pure disrespectful hatred, makes her think that it's alright. It doesn't matter, because she'll crawl back to me anyway; I'm great.

Thing is, I always do.

Warning; Clear The Area.

It's happened again; reunited are two insane, hyped up individuals, each doing a damned good impersonation of a five-year-old, although they're rather larger now, and can cause far more damage. There's to be a lot of giggling, bouncing on the bed to a sesame street soundtrack, and a Pirate party. All compounded by big hair.

This could result in several minute disasters. Not least the destruction of a mattress, the loss of toothbrushes, or the creation of disturbing literature which just might find its way into the teeny tiny hands of James - the next generation to be warped and twisted into something manic by this tea-fed duo - who's fast approaching One.

You have been warned.

Today's Cue: I remember how it was to drive in gravel (after Theodore Roethke)

I remember how it was to drive in gravel, along the badly carved, long driveway, bouncing against the canvas roof of the clackety 3-wheeler. Switching my view from the endless fields to the imposing building which loomed ahead, glowing slightly against the navy sky. Home.

Spring Season Attire.

In light of this renewed approach, the blogs have a new look.

And at V.P, old works have been torn down and replaced with cobweb-free chapters of Alex, the little rat with global ambitions.

Back In Residence.

It's strange being back in the UK. I feel like an alien, tentacles and antennae twitching conspicuously as I explore. There's all this stuff around. Unnecessary stuff which I alternatively covet and loathe. And TV, music, movies and books have all mutated into unknown, uncomfortable creatures.

I don't know where I fit, who I am, within this world, or any world in fact. But that's ok.

Of course, some things never change. Walking my gorgeous stink-dog through stagnant streams and muddy snow sluices is as much fun (and as hazardous) as ever. Proper tea and buttery toast is still the best cold-morning breakfast, as cozy and indulgent as it always were. Friends and I pick things up almost where we left off.


And then there's the writing.

Borders is the same haven as it always was; Vicky and Mike and I picked at 'Alex' as brutally (in a friendly way, you understand. No hostages taken) as it deserves this week. Implied promises of companionship and guidance are comforting, in this strange new world.


And, in other news, The Week That They Were Writers is about to be re-run, though sadly one man down.

In short, the writer's back in residence.