Sitting at a table near me, a young man's in love with his laptop, gazing at the screen, while his coffee gets cold. He's not a regular, not like the woman settled in a corner, who looks as if she lives there. Her hair is white, permed all over into cauliflower curls. She's digging deep… Continue reading The Cafe
The End of April
Note: this piece is a short story, based on real events. Berlin, 1945. In the Fuhrerbunker. The 28th. I have my own room, with a nice carpet, a comfy sofa with a matching armchair and a single bed. The standard lamp in the corner has a shade of pleated pink silk, like the ones in… Continue reading The End of April
Night Visitors
I'm ready for it. The routines are complete - doors locked, blinds down. Make-up off, teeth attended to. Mount the stairs, then put a glass of water within reach. Here comes the night. Read for a bit, turn off the lamp, then sleep for a while - but lightly and not for long. The late… Continue reading Night Visitors
The Diet
Two bananas, three times a day, with milk in a small bottle, the size once delivered to schools. That was the first one, to keep a classmate company. We were war babies, with heavy bones from our mothers' extra rations and disgusting dollops of cod liver oil - but we wanted to be sylph-like and… Continue reading The Diet
The Signature
I was once a King - or rather, married to one. Wearing a long purple velvet coat and a single daffodil, I picked up a ballpoint pen and wrote a new surname in a Town Hall register. A spike of a word. It was 1971. I thought it was the Law, that you had to… Continue reading The Signature
The Uniform
Reach for the jeans, then a vest. Then a top to go over the vest. A jacket, a scarf. Ankle boots, shoulder bag. It's what I wear, most days of the week. Comfort, with a bit of style. Well, that's the idea. Seven easy pieces. A few choices to make: bootcut or straight, spring or… Continue reading The Uniform
The Loaf
The bread's gone missing. When it's not sitting on the acacia board, waiting for action, it's chilling on the middle shelf of the fridge, in its very own drawstring 'fresher for longer' linen bag, super-seeded, with several slices left. But it isn't. I don't remember finishing it or throwing bits of it to the birds… Continue reading The Loaf
