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

‘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