It's remarkable just how stone cold dead an ill-fitting narrator can kill an audiobook: someone who fails to disguise their disinterest in the story and characters, clearly has no grasp of the book's intentions, or quite simply has the wrong voice for the material. As an
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The full version of today's post is for paid subscribers only. You can read all of it by subscribing here, at a price of your choice. There are several levels, but since moving away from Substack I have introduced a £2 one (or £20 a year if you
Once the algorithm had shown the post to enough people, the dissenting voices would begin: it’s not good to steal sheep… I am informing the US authorities about this… what about the sheep’s owner… have I not thought of him/her and his/her feelings?
This post is free for everyone to read but on the off chance you'd like to support my writing you can do so here, at a price of your choice from £20 per year (you can also make a one-off donation here). By subscribing, you will get access
I didn't realise when I woke up this morning that I was going to write a spooky story in its entirety, nor quite what it was going to be about (apart from an unnerving memory from my childhood about a wrong number and a light in a haunted
I liked the music of Belle and Sebastian. Dave preferred the smell of dead crows.
It was 2011 and I had driven up from Norfolk, where I was living at the time, to Nottinghamshire to see my mum and dad. Not long after I arrived, my dad took me to one side. “TOM, CAN I HAVE A WORD?” he said. When my dad says, “TOM,
A couple of years ago, during one of the many times I was hunting far and wide for a house to rent, the confusing listing pictured above kept coming up in my search. It prompted many questions: How could anyone afford to pay £20,000 PCM to rent ANYTHING to
Subscribe now I'm reposting this piece I wrote a little while ago about my mum and dad's art, which some you might have seen, but many of you won't, since I also wanted to let you know about a few bits and bobs the
“Pixy/Piskie: This is the standard term in Devon, Cornwall and Somerset for a fairy, though many writers from the early 19th Century onwards have insisted that the two races are quite distinct.. (A pixie’s) best-known characteristic is causing people to lose their way, even in a familiar neighbourhood:
Division Of Labour I dust my house I have my own style Not quite like anybody else Who ever dusted Honed One might say Over many years Not unsurpassable But unparalleled From across the room My AI Robot Watches I scowl back You should be the one Doing this Not
Silent had never been more violent
The full version of today's piece is paywalled but can be read - along with all my other upcoming pieces, and my archive - for a price beginning at £2 per month/£20 per year. I also wanted to take this quick opportunity to to let those of
"He announces that he has given up dentistry to become a miner. I find it hard to discern his motivation for this, other than the convenience of being able to redeploy the headtorch he used in his former profession."
I thought I should write an explanatory message today about the way I'm doing things here from now on.
Support My Writing By Upgrading To A Paid Subscription Why have I been thinking about death so much this week? It’s probably an autumn thing and no doubt it’s not entirely unrelated to my recent health problems but also, taking a glance back at what I’ve been
"Also, they’re not feet. They’re called rotorsocks.”
Subscribe now Melbury Beacon isn’t quite the highest place in Dorset, but, at 263 metres above sea level, it’s one of the big boys and, much like the man I walked to it with a couple of autumns ago, probably has no trouble seeing when it stands at
Its authenticity was discredited because of his reputation, but also because he was quick with gin at the time and wearing an item of knitwear back to front.
Today's post is free but on the off chance you'd like to support my writing you can do so here, at a price of your choice from £10 per year, or via a one-off donation here. * Please spare a thought for Jim the cat. 31 months
This is a piece I wrote a while ago but I wanted to make it free to read again. I wrote it during the very early stages of planning for my novel 1983 when a memory popped up of wandering around the Nottingham branch of the furniture store Habitat with
You might think I am being unkind when I say “crazy shrub-haired widow” in reference to my ex-husband’s landlady, but I assure you I am not.
Today's post is free but on the off chance you'd like to support my writing you can do so here, at a price of your choice from £10 per year, or via a one-off donation here. * My dad has come to an arrangement with the public