Monday, October 31

Sometimes we forget

As I walk into town I pass a pigeon, standing on a bending branch in the middle of a bush. On the way home a squirrel runs along the garden fences. Sometimes we forget we're sharing this place we live in.

Sunday, October 30


A thin cresent moon reclines, relaxing after a long night's watch.
Half an hour later the sillhouettes of birds pass from left to right. Behind them a satellite burns brighter than the brightest star.
Later still the sky is open and blue. The clouds are lit up as if on stage - some pink, some yellow, some white.

Saturday, October 29

By the canal

A woman screams at her child, and a scabby looking pigeon shuffles about looking for something to eat.

Friday, October 28

Graveyard, Goring

An exquisite stone angel, missing a hand.
A man on a motorised wheelchair, looking into the distance.
A rose bush - the foilage all but gone, the blooms standing out from the autumnal drizzle, jolts of pink.

Thursday, October 27


A bulb has sent a blunt green periscope up above the earth, already thinking about the Spring.

Wednesday, October 26

Food you need to work to get at

tastes better for it - pomegranites, chestnuts, artichoke hearts, nuggets of goodness in their centres.

Tuesday, October 25

The kind of young girl

This morning the sun has chosen to spotlight a clump of dead weeds, grown through cracks in the concrete. They have small heads with wild spikes and they twitch in the breeze like confused metronomes or annoyed cat's tails. They are the pale honey colour of a young girl's hair, the kind of young girl who wears white dresses and hums as she picks cornflowers.

Monday, October 24

Sunday, October 23

Office choir, Sunday

The lights buzzing, the PCs humming, the tippety tap and click click click of one person at work. It's a sad song.

Saturday, October 22

Friday, October 21

Exhibition, Women's Library

As we look at the first feminist magazines and posters for a vote for women she talks about being one of four women in her department of eighty, and how she worries about losing her looks as this, at least, is an advantage to her.

Thursday, October 20

All the reasons I should be putting it off

I get on with it, being tired of all-the-reasons-I-should-be putting-it-off filling to the brim the space-before-I-get on-with-it.

Wednesday, October 19

Seeing human beings everywhere, even where they're not

Only a part of his back is visible as he does something useful underneath the hollow stone staircase, and having grown used to interpreting curved material as human beings I see another where there's really only a navy mattress folded and propped against the wall.

Tuesday, October 18

Standing room only

He's leaning his big beefy arm out of the wound-down window, elbow bent. Hundreds of cuddly toys crowd on the dashboard - it's standing room only.

Monday, October 17

Too much space

Today there's too much space inside me, especially in my head -
pockets of nervous buzzing nothing trying to find a way out.

Sunday, October 16

She stayed late

Yesterday she stayed late at the office with a pair of sharp scissors, and cut all the mouses free.

Saturday, October 15

Too many chocolates

Too many chocolates, the dregs silting my insides like fine dark river-mud.

Friday, October 14

Trees turning colour again

I am thinking I shouldn't be writing about trees turning colour again - a yellow-fringed twig sticking up into the air and spurning its still-green colleagues, the row of red and green trees that are now all the same burgundy - when I remember that if I wanted I could write about the same leaf every day for a year and it would still be alive.

In Windsor Castle

A display of two three-foot dolls, given as a gift in 1938 from one royal family to another - they have freakish large eyes and an extensive wardrobe each. These are the gloves I like best - plain white, spotted with the embroidered black outlines of flies.

Wednesday, October 12


A new bubble of blood grows whenever I pull away the cotton wool. I imagine it all leaking away in the night, leaving me shrivelled, limp and de-pinked.

Tuesday, October 11

Peeling half an avocado

With a thumb poked in, the skin comes willingly away from the slippery flesh.

Monday, October 10

Holding on tight

I turn my head. Deep in the tangled centre of the rosemary bush, a drop of water is holding on tight to the end of a straight leaf. A tiny circle of brilliant white light, seeping around the edges, pokes me in the eye. I turn my head a fraction more and it's gone.

Sunday, October 9

Velvet carpety

A blob of dew on the tip of each blade gives the grass a velvet carpety look.

Friday, October 7


Leaves of the plant climbing up the wire fence. The plastic lid of a jar and a paper napkin on the pavement. The postbox where someone has posted the innards of a kebab - thin strips of pale green lettuce sticking to the lip below the slot.

Thursday, October 6


She says something, I say something, she says something. Deep, deep, deep down, foundations shift.

Wednesday, October 5

Ordinary landscape

A scooter cover, spattered with specks of white paint and flapping in the wind. Next door's black dustbin, mouth shut and waiting to be fed. Bricks holding the warm inside. The dirty grey pavements ready to hold us up.

Tuesday, October 4


I watch him crossing the road - mid thirties, greasy blond curtains of hair, a huge black puffa jacket. When he gets to the corner he stops dead, for no apparent reason, and stands motionless with a blank face as if he's trying to keep his balance. I watch him for as long as I can and then turn away - when I look back he's gone.

Monday, October 3


The freshly ploughed field looks like something baked golden and delicious in the thin sunshine. Clods of earth sit on the surface like crumbs.

Sunday, October 2

Saturday, October 1


I shine it with my thumb all morning but the genie stays inside.