Tag Archives: love

Choose your Wheels

The Algarve book (title TBC) is finished and I’m drifting about today like a jellyfish on a gently undulating wave of idleness. The sea continues to preoccupy me even though I pressed SEND yesterday.

This post isn’t actually about the sea. It’s about two vehicles driven by my three main characters Precious, Harry and Nathan. Two vehicles which couldn’t be more different.

First, the Porsche Boxster. White, of course. Spanish number plates. It belongs to Nathan’s dad, but Nathan is borrowing it to impress Precious. Are you impressed? I’m impressed.

‘Take the car. Girls like good cars.’

I feel a rush of wonder. My father is going to let me drive his car? He hardly lets me touch his car.

‘Treat it well,’ Dad says mildly.

The second vehicle is Green Doris, the Piaggio Ape. Ah, Green Doris. Who isn’t green. She looks like this. At first, anyway.

‘But it’s blue,’ says Harry.

‘It smells green. And it’s old. And it’s kind of funny because it’s blue. So Green Dor– forget it.’

Two guys, a girl and the big blue sea. Two vehicles, one cool and one not so cool. If you had to choose just one set of wheels in which to buzz around the Algarve, which would it be?

Be careful what you wish for.

‘Eternal tourists of ourselves, there is no landscape but what we are.’

Fernando Pessoa




On the Shelf

As it’shhh-librarians #nationalpoetryday (and I haven’t updated my blog in an age) I thought it was a good opportunity to dust off this old thing. Enjoy.



Bunkum’s Book Emporium: a paper crematorium where books can die unread.

The shelving units date away to 1634, they say (well, Mr Bunkum said).

They told me that my Prince would come and offer me a lordly sum to go and be his wife;

The Prince dissolved, as did his yacht, and left me here to wonder what to do about my life.


I suffer for my trade, and must breathe in an awful lot of dust, which often makes me think

My bones are very likely filled with words that once a public thrilled, my veins must course with ink.

My hair will be the threads that hold the books upon their spines of gold, my skin is soft like vellum;

If customers come in to browse, I furtively adjust my blouse and flex my cerebellum.


The clients are an absent lot, who half the time have just forgotten life this side of forty,

They hem and haw and ask what’s in the work of this Anais Nin that makes her quite so naughty.

I frown and tut (for pleasure, partly), tell them books by JR Hartley don’t in truth exist,

And with a flash of erudition, comment on a first-edition Kierkegaard they’ve missed.


My only hope of rescue lies with Mr Bunkum’s straining flies, which seem to need attention.

Perhaps he’d like a double life? Apparently he’s got a wife he doesn’t like to mention.

I’ll lie in wait and seize my chance and ask him if he’d like to dance, then flash a bit of knee.

The bodice-ripping heroines within the shop remainder bins won’t be a patch on me!