Tag

memories

journal, writing

Ghosts in the Woods

Barney and Emily run, shrieking through the woodland. Plimsoled feet through the dry, leafy floor. Carol sits with her Sony Walkman under the tree with the initials and dates carved into its stretched sides. Hugo talks maths puzzles with the…

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Memories and the train of thought

Whilst on the bus today I fell to thinking about how, where possible I like to approach bus stops facing towards the direction of travel. Where I currently live I am equidistant om two possible bus stops – give or…

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Weird reminiscences

I’ve just heard my Gran talk! An aside to this should be that I only have one Granpa left, so to hear my Gran talk is somewhat surprising. I’m listening to my mp3 player, and this morning whilst scrolling through…

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On the edge of the village

1. Last night I didn’t really sleep all that well. My head was churning and my mind cranking with thoughts of Corncrake Way. I want that house, but at the same time I fear that its not big enough. Over…

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On the Ninth Day of Christmas

So, Little Chef have called in the receivers – it’s hardly surprising really when you think about it. The truth is people don’t stop at Little Chefs any more; not like they used to. Time was, when you were off…

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The stirring of the creative soul

Today has been one of those days when it never really seems to get light. Waking in the halflight of morning with grey fog thick around me, it never lifts, and morning blends into afternoon, and the halflight of dusk…

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Farewell to Grannie

Today, we gathered as a family at Amersham Crematorium to say our goodbyes to Grannie Shepherd. The coffin, before us, seemed so very small set out in front of us. To go in by, we couldn’t find a copy of…

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I Are What I Are #3

K. I write down her name on the back page of my notebook full of roughs. Is it possible that she likes me? What was meant earlier in the playground? In my insecurities, I jest with Simon, sitting next to…

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I Are What I Are #2

The summer of 1989 – the summer I turned sixteen – was one of the last truly, long, hot summer’s I can remember. Months stretched on after months of blazing sun, roasting temperatures and blue skies. In the early days…

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I Are What I Are

a biography of me I’m fifteen and I’m sitting on the flint and brick wall outside the church, looking across the little roadway that leads to the beach. In my fingers are my pencil and rubber, and on my lap,…

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