So hallo, this is my first ever blog. IÕm not really sure what itÕs for but I know that at some point IÕll write on/it it. So I guess thatÕs a good thing as IÕm supposed to be a writer and the first thing I canÕt do is make myself write when I need to be.

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Twenty copies of Kill-Grief arrived today, after a somewhat nail-biting few weeks involving a printer going into administration and a lot of heroism on the part of Picnic Publishing and their freelance designer, John Schwartz, who went way beyond the call of duty in sorting everything out.

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It was hot. So hot that for a few feet the air above the concrete promenade rippled and shimmied, causing the bare legs of slowly strolling flip-flop clad day trippers to look as if they were refracted through a fun fair mirror. I sat in the shade on the steps of the lifeguard hut eating a hamburger and wearing a knock-off Frankie Says… tee shirt that I’d bought for a pound in the market. A piece of fried onion escaped from the clammy stale bun and landed in a greasy coil on the turquoise capital F to the right of my chest. I picked it off between my fingers and flicked it onto the ground.


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Yes, me!

I went to see a choral/orchestral performance (sorry - don't know the proper term) last night of Mozart's Requiem (this kind of thing). And it was brilliant, which, to be honest was a surprise and a relief. I've never been too fussed about Mozart's stuff before, but that I loved - and I loved that it was live. Definitely something I'd do again, despite looking considerably out of place (I should be used to that really). Really glad I made the effort - not least because I got to go for drinks with some of the choir afterwards whose company was a fine thing.

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Since we got here, we've walked about ten miles a day. I never used to be a walker. In fact, I never used to leave the house if I could help it. I have, however, always liked the countryside, though more as something to be looked at and admired from behind a window, than as something to get deeply and messily involved in.


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- How was your week?
- Full of wild dreams.
- Like what?
- The other night there was a man in a pram.
- A man in a pram?
- Not a big one; I think it was a doll’s pram.
- So maybe that’s about you wanting control.
- He wasn’t my man in a pram; he was just there, talking.

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He had stood at the crossroads at the tender age of seventeen where, as predicted, he had received his first criminal record. He could have walked to the left and stayed on its disastrous path, ending up just another statistical drain on today’s society. But he chose the path to the right, working hard to reclaim his dignity and self respect. He cherished this path, gaining a rewarding job, loving girlfriend and loyal friends. He awoke on the day of his 22nd birthday not knowing that today he would be honoured a hero. Today he would rescue the life of a young child from a burning building sacrificing his own life in the process.

The woman is in earnest expressive conversation with a companion sitting opposite. Or rather, most of her is. Her forehead doesn’t budge even as her arms gesticulate and her mouth mouths words that I can’t quite hear. She is certainly striking, dressed completely in black and with an impressive bouffant of wild curly hair that elevates her height by a good ten inches. From her skin tone, her lips, the slight impression of jowls just starting to melt from her jaw line, I estimate that she is maybe in her mid fifties. Except for her forehead, which, shiny and smoothly isolated in its own age zone, is just beginning to breech its early twenties.


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So I decided to try out a new pub restaurant. It's opening had been delayed by 15 months so it must be good, surely? Inside the decor was fantastic, but the bar staff were not. 'Ignore them', I told myself. Outside the kids had more than enough room to play and the activities covered everything from swings and slides to climbing frames and trampolines. So we ordered while the kids wore themselves out. Two dinners turned up and ten minutes later I had to ask where the other three were. Eventually they arrived. My sons cheeseburger and morphed into a plain hamburger and both his and my daughters chicken dish were dryer than the sahara desert. My parents were not much better either. Mine on the other hand was lovely and freshly cooked. None of being a family of complainers, we ate and just giggled to each other. 25 minutes after the dishes were collected from the table did we enquire to the childrens desserts to which the young waitress replies "Oh, we was not sure if you were ready for them yet!" I don't think I will be returning.

If you do you should go to the splendid Dogmatika, where my story Lists has just gone live.

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