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Tea and similarity

1 Feb 2007

He'd lost count of the number of times he'd assembled the contents of this tray—salt cellar, a boiled egg in a mint-green eggcup, a spoon, and a stack of pale soldiers dampened with butter—but today was different. The toast was as always the colour of marzipan, had barely felt the heat before being rescued from the toaster. As always too all trace of crust had been removed, lest Mrs Sims' dentures be unable to cope. And the eggshell was still immaculate, awaiting the force of Mrs Sims' own will, still strong enough for her to wield it with a little elderly pride.

Near side, off side, other side

16 Jan 2007

"He'd always insist on driving my mum round. But even then my dad used to hate driving. He really was only doing it because, when they were first married, driving the car was seen as a man's job."

I smiled, and thought about my own dad's driving. "A different generation, I suppose," I said.

"Exactly, yeah. The thing was, he was a plumber, so he had to go round people's houses, you know, to fix their boilers or whatever—"

A feast for the Almighty

30 Jul 2006

M— let the file fall—slap—onto the table. As his superior D— stared at them the pages, compressed by the impact, relaxed and expanded a little.

"How is our friend today?" D— asked, not taking his eyes off the file.

"Sleeping it off, sir."

D— looked up at that, prompting M— to continue: "It's day five of the current cycle, sir." A shrug. "He gets to sleep. Anyway, the doctor recommended it after Friday's interrogation."

That dare not speak

11 Aug 2005

'Illaston 56-8442? Oh, hell-o. Yes, I thought it'd be you. I take it you're after more information about the bard himself? For the great Pally with Pallister, or whatever you're going to call it. Well, if you're sure. I must say I prefer my suggestion.

Cherry-red

31 Jul 2005

He had no money, no girl, and no inspiration. Plenty of perspiration, though, as he tried not to think about her, and instead wrestled with the workbench and the vice. As he practised the night-class motions, clouds of sawdust drew the bile out of his unrequited agonies, sucking it out like poison from a wound. The rhythm of planing and sanding drew him further and further into a kind of meditation, and at one point he even caught himself singing.

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