Broken windscreen, 4 ft very slight scratch mark from rear of front wheel arch to rear nearside door.
I lived in a safe house. Not a safe house like when you’re on the run from the enemy, or you are the enemy within the close vicinity of those who would consider you so, but a safe place in which to grow up. It was quirky and chaotic: we had buffalo horns and ostrich eggs, World War 2 helmets and a decommissioned German officer’s Luger, and jazz on the record player. We had a Reliant Robin with no engine in the garden, in which we played, and scrap paper from the Houses of Parliament with a black border mourning the death of the King. Continue reading
Part of an unfinished short story about very young love.
Caleb and Angela had always had a sort of on-off relationship, but despite this, on one thing they were both agreed, that one day, they would be married. It was Angela who had first suggested it, when they were both four, and Caleb, being fairly easy going and really not too bothered about who he married, had agreed and not given it a second thought. But then, soon after, handmade cards and hand-written notes had started to be posted through his door, and each time Caleb picked up the deliveries, he would run to the window, only to see Angela disappearing behind her hedge, trailing a ribbon of pink chiffon, a mop of dark, curly hair and the click-clack of a very large pair of bright red high heels. Continue reading