Sunday, July 31


He doesn't like cats because they never do what you tell them to do. I like cats because they never do what you tell them to do.

Saturday, July 30


...oozing a gelatinous substance that once brushed past an apple, soaked in fat and crusted in crystals of sugar. The part of my brain that still thinks 'forbidden = yummy' has tricked me into putting half of it into my stomach. I drop the rest in the bin where it belongs.

Thursday, July 28

Six children

The large cold gravestone holds the names of six children. They were all born to the same parents. They all died between the ages of six months and thirteen years. I study the dates - these two within three days of each other, this one four years later - and try to imagine the grief.

Wednesday, July 27


The fur stroked out
of her silver coat
rests on her back

like downy dandelion seeds
waiting to be blown away
on a -puff- of breeze

and to take root in
the earth, and grow.

Tuesday, July 26


I put the lawnmower on the lowest setting, and now there are painful brown patches scattered amongst the too-short yellow grass. It will grown back.

Monday, July 25

Sunday, July 24

Saturday, July 23


A muscle just underneath the lower lashes of my right eye has mutinied. I watch it in the mirror as it vibrates like the wings of a bird trapped in the corner of a room.

Friday, July 22


The ends of my hair are splitting. They remind me I'm wearing out.

Thursday, July 21

Squeaky shoes

When I take them off my bare feet make no noise on the grass, and are happy soles.

Wednesday, July 20

What goes on in houses

A beautiful thirteen year old girl with braided hair and luminous dark brown skin pushes away from her house on her bike, blinking a tear that splashes onto her top.

Monday, July 18

Becoming one with my laptop

I hold my finger out in front of me to imagine how the character in my novel would blow a money-spider dry after he's fished her out of his cup of tea. The hard rubber of the nipple mouse in the centre of my lap-top has left a pea-sized dent in the tip of my index finger. I wait for a whole minute and it doesn't fade.

Sunday, July 17

A pale blue tin...

the 'Maynards London Fudge' long gone, the rust bleeding through the paint around the rim, holds onto two mouses and a drawing pin.

Saturday, July 16

Friday, July 15

This evening I am allowed to be a flower

Our neighbour is giving his plants a long drink. I can hear the splashing and pattering but I can't see him through the wire fence and thick screen of leaves and blossoms. He can't see me either, as now droplets of shining water are flying through the air to soak me and a rather disgruntled Fatty. I am watered until the soles of my feet sprout roots.

Wednesday, July 13


I want to describe the exact aroma of my coffee, and sniff at the lip of the cup until I sneeze.

Tuesday, July 12


The scraped-off layer bunches up like cobwebs, like the skin of latex glue you peel off your fingers. Underneath is smoother, a deepening rose. Later colours will bloom around my knees.

Monday, July 11

Right now

is the first time I've asked myself how I'm feeling today. What about you?

Sunday, July 10

After listening to Galway Kinnell

Driving through an avenue of trees, thick golden light drips through the spaces between leaves. We are well-fed and drowsy. The atmosphere in the car is heavy with poetry.

(Read or listen to St. Francis and the Sow by Galway Kinnell here.)

Saturday, July 9

A shelf of voices

'The Great Mother', 'Alone Together', 'Recovering from Cults'. All of the authors asking us to hear what they have to say. The hundreds of thousands of words.

Friday, July 8


The wind shaking the grass is more ear-catching than the rushing roar of metal on tarmac.

Thursday, July 7

We are so easily hurt

"As soon as I got out the station I phoned my mum to tell her I was OK." From an eye-witness account by Scott Wenbourne, London.

Wednesday, July 6

all I can muster today

grain mustard
hook for drying cloth
olive oil
washing up liq
snack bars
cat bisc + meat
nuts to snack on

Tuesday, July 5

Shut your eyes

The dusty CD sitting underneath the light-bulb separates the white light into purple, blue, green, yellow, orange, red. Each colour is as luminous as a highlighter pen. If I want to remember the shape I only have to shut my eyes.

Monday, July 4

And relax.....

Pushing water past me in the cool blue, my muscles (who hadn't realised they were tense) let go. And then let go. And then let go.

Sunday, July 3

Fifteen minutes to go

before the end of Sunday. I'm writing today because I said I would. Rules hold me together.

Saturday, July 2

At the other end

A long journey listening to Live 8 on the radio with the rest of the world, and at the other end
1) two otters spotted plunging into the water and rising up together
2) apple and ginger tea, which tasted as good cold as it did hot
3) people I love

Friday, July 1

Here it is!

After a morning of restless searching (I thought I'd know it when I saw it, but maybe it didn't exist in the first place) I break for salad with new potatoes and rocket from the garden. Here it is!