Tuesday, 24 November 2009

Sunday Service

The congregation were prickly and disgruntled. The new vicar was a woman? And, apparently, she wasn’t the sort of woman to have use for a husband.
“It’s a disgrace,” muttered Vic, the butcher.
“An outrage,” agreed Hilda, who once ran the pub. “What are we going to do?”
There was much rumbling and grumbling.
“I know,” said Hilda. “We should hold our own meeting, our own Sunday service.”
There were showy nods and boisterous agreement.
“Come to mine, if you like.”
So on Sunday morning, at a quarter to ten, they arrived at Hilda’s house. They trooped into her tastefully tidy front room. She had set out chairs and draped a tea-towel over the telly. They sat down, heads bowed.
She tottered in and gave a nervous smile.
“Shall we begin?”
They nodded. She took a deep breath, and said,
“Let us pray. Our father, who art in heaven.”

A female vicar? What a ridiculous idea. There was no way Hilda and her friends were going to stand for that.

Sunday, 22 November 2009


We’re bored. There’s nothing to do. We can’t even get a drink; the shop won’t serve us.

“I know where we can get a beer,” says Mozza. “Bet there’s stuff in ‘The Eatery’.”

It closed six months ago. The fella did a runner in the middle of the night. Jamie’s not keen, but we know he’s just scared of his dad.

We prowl round and lurk in the shadows. We prise a window and slither in, sniggering. It’s the most fun we’ve had in weeks. We flick our lighters. Everything is filmed with black, sticky dust.

Mozza’s wrong; there’s no booze here. We clatter through the kitchen. The oozing darkness closes behind us.

I open a door. The lighters blow out. There is a smell; sour and earthy. When Mozza’s spark lights, Jamie screams.

Bodies; the room is full of bodies, dead bodies, sprawling in piles across the floor, limp limbs dangling.

Then, somewhere behind us, a door slams.

I wish we could go back to being merely bored.

Saturday, 21 November 2009

The Virgin Blog


Welcome to 'A Very Ordinary Madness', which, incidentally, is the working title of my award-winning collection of short stories... Or at least will be once said collection makes it out of my head and down, down onto paper. And how many millions of wannabe writers have you heard say just that? I'll write it tomorrow when I have more time. Or the day after tomorrow. Actually, next week. Well, maybe next year. I should introduce myself properly: I am the queen of procrastination. Nice to meet you.

So while I'm finding my feet with this blogging malarky, and before I go and treat myself to another beer to help me on the way, I just have to say this.

It's cold. It's a dark, wind and rain-lashed evening. But there's something Bob (the dog) and I need to point out to the good people whose homes line the route of our favoured walk.

  • It isn't Christmas yet.
  • It isn't even December, thus;
  • IT ISN'T TIME TO PUT UP YOUR CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS (unless you are a supermarket, in which case the kindest thing is to take you out and shoot you.)

You know who you are.

I feel much better now! Cheers!
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