We’re trying something new, the other half and I. He bought a guitar, I got out my mandolin. Alone, we sound just fine Our tunes when matched Are out of kilter Peeling decking prepped for paint Same tin, the perfect match But new-spread patches darkly smooth Weathered layers in faded shades Match my skills to job requirements They’re such a perfect fit But apparently I’ve weathered: They want fresh paint If all the warehouses Of crippled dreams Should accidentally burn

‘Do you know this man?’ ‘Know?’ Her eyes open wide, and her fingertips touch her sternum in affronted shock. The man indicated raises an eyebrow at her. ‘Why, I’ve known you since you were born, and Mary knotted the lace for your christening gown. Of course you know me!’ She turns to him, a stiffened pillar of moral indignation. ‘Why, Sir, were one to play fast and loose with language, one might carelessly term an acquaintance, even a family friend, as such. However, on

If you’re an online influencer there’s no respite from the tyranny of posting. Every situation dissolves into a potential source of content. You can never stop stoking that fitful flame of public interest. Stop posting and the followers die down, and so does your income. How many ways can you film your budgie? How many recipes with rage-bait mistakes can you make? How many clothes can you ‘style’ before you start losing your mind and wearing three skirts at once: one as a ski

Mungo does not approve of the new manager. He looks askance at her: her fashionable outfit curated to be the perfect combo of casual and professional, her solicitous insistence on endless woke ideologies, her damned salads for lunch. Damned jumped-up housewife. He’s not sure how anyone let her out of the kitchen. Mungo stands musing on the woes and injustices of a world that could allow such outrages. ‘Have you finished with this?’ A voice cones from behind him. He starts

Making bodies do what they do not do naturally is one of the oldest demonstrations of power; which is kind of bonkers if you think about it. Logical authority would be the optimal use of bodies to their most suited capabilities, not their demonstrative repurposing. Drill sergeants training recruits to stand, march, and look in unison may (and do) argue that practice grows abilities where there were none; but bodies deprived of any movement standing on sentry, or bodies in con

‘I don’t care, I’m keeping my surname. It’s a ridiculous custom. Besides, the hassle. Ugh.’ He shrugs. ‘Oh, I see that. How about if we choose something different? Like, both of us.’ ‘That’s just making a fuss for the sake of it. Why bother?’ ‘Well… I could change my first name at the same time.’ She raises her eyebrow. ‘To…?’ ‘Well I could get it spelled right, to start with.’ She’s too polite to comment, and there’s a silence. He continues. ‘I've been lumped w

‘Are you losing it?’ ‘Excuse me?’ ‘We had a whole conversation about this last night.’ ‘DID we?’ ‘Yes, you had this whole thing about how you really don’t like trifle, and you’ve been eating it just to keep me company, and truth be told you’d rather never see another bowl of trifle as long as you live.’ ‘DID I?’ Her eyes pop wide. She silently considers that the truth of this statement is undeniable. ‘I have absolutely no recollection.’ ‘Anyway, that’s fine. Never mind about

I have a cold, and I’m coughing. The apothecary’s daughter suggested her father’s syrup, but I’ve had too close a view of his workshop to take that up. Meanwhile the weeks go past and Mary complains she can’t sleep for the noise I make. Harry from the blacksmith’s, little Harry with the smutty nose, says his uncle in the country swears by a pickled pigeon’s egg, mashed with honey and ash. Where does one find a pigeon egg in November, let alone a pickled one? And why am I pa

1096 ‘Sister Magdalena is not back from her rounds. We cannot lock the outer gates.’ ‘There is no-one to watch them. They must be locked.’ ‘Sister…’ ‘They must be locked.’ You breathe deeper, reigning down the cries behind your ribs. ‘I will watch them. Give me the keys.’ The whites of the Abbess’s eyes appear around the winter blue. ‘Give you the keys?’ You bow, and stay bowed, praying that Humility will speak for you, for Magdalena. After a small eternity, y

May you not know fear Nor taint your heart to outweigh The truthful feather

‘How on earth do you know?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘You mean it’s a hunch.’ ‘A kind of inner sense. Hunch sounds…uncouth.’ ‘Oh come on. Are you letting intrusive thoughts in again?’ (Mumbles) ‘Ablist trash.’ ‘What?’ ‘Potash. I need to get some more potash.’ ‘What?’ ‘The roses. They can’t live on banana skins alone.’ ‘Are you all right?’ ‘Anyway I’m sure of it. He’s bullshitting.’ ‘Hmm. And how does your inner sense come up with this?’ ‘The notebook he lent

‘I am fucking interesting!’ she yelled. ‘I meant, perhaps you could adjust the topic of conversation to the audience.’ ‘It’s their business if they can’t keep up. Lazy fuckers.’ ‘Yes but they’re only in Year 3.’ ‘No time like the present to get educated. Best thing for them.’ ‘Anyway, the course co-ordinator suggested you might like to take a refresher course on child-centred learning techniques.’ ‘A what?’ ‘You know, just to make sure it’s uppermost in your co

‘There are no words to this song, Hey lolly lolly lo, You make them up as you go, Hey lolly lolly lo.’* Step 1. Have a brilliant idea (preferably while drunk, in love, infuriated, or all of the above) and scrawl a two-sentence outline on a napkin. Step 2 . Earn the disapproval of the waiter for destroying the table linen. Step 3. Purloin the napkin (they don’t care anymore anyway) and forget how you managed to get home. Step 4. Take some Alka-Seltzer when you wak

Dolphins, we are told, only let one side of their brain sleep at a time – what with the whole mammals drowning thing. This presents an ideal metaphor for poor-quality sleep which leaves you feeling as if you never slept. To sleep thus is ‘dolphining’. (That’s what I claim, anyway). It’s a depressingly useful word. I’m in no danger of drowning in my bed, yet I dolphin constantly. I have questions. 1) How does one determine that a sleeping dolphin is partitioning its brain? W

Heavy-winged night sits on my shoulder. The weight of night comes down like a soft paw, in velvet finality. An atlas moth spreads its powdery wings, channelling the moonlight into fractal droplets of incalculable weight. What rebellion were we guilty of, to be so burdened? What Titanic fault? Probably nothing. This is just the way of things. Earlier iterations must give way to later. Titans to Olympians. Moths, too, are more ancient than butterflies. I had always imagined

‘She gouged out his eye with a butter knife?’ ‘A plastic one.’ Jeannie sipped on her tea. ‘Were there no metal ones to hand?’ She replaced her cup in her saucer with a small chink. ‘Perhaps she enjoyed the challenge.’ ‘Hm. Care for a white chocolate almond? They’re very good.’ ‘Oh, thank you, yes…So did you finish the backyard renovations? I heard you were doing some mosaics.’ ‘Yes, they’re done. All concreted over. Couldn’t leave that sort of stuff lying arou

The heavy-duty tarpaulin I kept from a Jeep at a wreckers has turned into one of my most prized possessions. Heavy to carry on my nightly climb up into the mountains, but worth it. Bramble thickets are the best places to hide out in. I have several and use them in turn, so my movements won’t become too predictable. The tarpaulin makes things much more comfortable. They said I was mad, coming up here, a tiny thing like me. What am I going to do? How do I expect to protect my

‘You got yourself a right lemon there.’ He stood squinting at the aging Ford Focus in the driveway. ‘Look at that! Barely legal.’ He kicked at the front left. ‘It seems OK, Dad. A few dings and bings, not a big deal. I checked the history.’ ‘Hmph.’ He makes a sound like a badger clearing its throat. ‘Shall I take you for a spin?’ Mel Waves invitingly towards the passenger seat. ‘Nah, might never make it out.’ He laughs in Superior Masculinity, and pats a corpulence of

My name means spring, and my name day is in March. It all makes sense in the northern hemisphere. My partner celebrates it on Sept 1 st , assigning an antipodean valence with cheerful disregard for tradition. Whatever the date, it always falls on pressure washing season.

‘How’re mum and baby doing today? All well?’ The midwife pats the covers and leans over the silent, close-wrapped bundle. ‘Oh, what a face!’ The mother laughs. ‘I know, right? I feel judged.’ ‘Those are eyes that know this world.’ The baby stares back at the midwife as if it’s about to announce her grades in maths. A big, black sombre gaze through lowered lids. Nine months. One year. Eighteen months. The gaze lands on carers and playmates. Five, ten, thirteen. ‘An o