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My peas are fresh yet they've come from a bag in the freezer; My ice tea isn't solid. The world is governed by laws But my life is full of anomalies...

bulb story he didn't much like the look of the 60-watt bulb beginning to glow above her head. it smacked of haloes and obligations, of some divine...

boat story the waterways seduce them - canal desire. they find themselves a boat and spend nights of narrow love nosing like otters. he grows...

I woke up covered in blood. I could taste it in my mouth, feel it in my ears, on my face, all around. I forced my eyes open, stuck shut by the sticky black stuff now on my body instead of within. I could make out shadowy figures around me. Slowly, their contorted faces came into focus. They were as disgusted and surprised as I was to find me there lying in my own blood. I knew what had happened. It was just my nose. An affliction since childhood, it bleeds with such regularity that, well, it just makes me wonder about things sometimes. At one stage, it was such a problem that I went to hospital and they gave me pure cocaine (cocaine!) to help fix it. An ineffective remedy, but one I highly recommend. Well worth the price of a punch in the face. The fields between Berlin and Sczczecin had ravaged me with hay fever all the day prior and continued to do so even under the sea. I was lying in a couchette on a train deep in a ferry en route to Copenhagen. Unpleasant surrounds for anyone bloody messed or at best. I grabbed some clean dirty clothes and headed to the 'WC' to join the queue for the morning ablutions. My bloody face allowed me to jump ahead of my place. I took the opportunity to strip off and have a full body wash. I had not seen myself naked for some time and it gave me rather a shock. I looked a wretched figure, as if covered in blood because someone had just carved a few kilos of flesh from me. I had not had a proper look at my willy for a while either. He looked sad and small and unfairly unloved. While washing, I had great trouble getting him caught up with the bags that now hang from my eyes like balloons left hanging up after a children's party for far too long. If only a little prick could take them away. I mused at the mouthwash, the one free product that the railway saw fit to give us. It looked like pot noodle and made me miss my mother's home cooking. I used the stuff and noted down the ingredients for dear Ma. I was pleased to have caught up on a little sleep. Cleanliness was now my prime problem. Counting back, I realised with alarm that it had been about seventy-two hours since my last shower. That may not come as a shock to those who know me well, but I bet it did to those whom I slept near on the train. My little bloodletting stunt completed my masterpiece in filth. I reminded myself of a chap I once sat with on an unforgettable overnight bus ride. He stunk with such enthusiasm that I retched whenever he talked and had to wash myself and all of my clothes, including those sealed in my bag, to try and remove the man from my life. To this day his stench remains seared in my brain. I was brought back to reality by what I thought was a knock on the door, but it was only one of my socks trying to make a break for it. I laughed, dragged the scared slimy little sucker back and slid it onto my foot. I could feel that the ferry was stopping at Malmo. I rushed to a window. I had never seen a train pull out of a ferry before and thought it quite a neat trick. I felt like a flea on a rabbit in a hat. I changed trains and an hour later arrived in Copenhagen. It was raining a little, the first I had seen for a while. It did not take me long to learn that the city had a big day planned. There was to be a screen in the square in front of the Town Hall. Perfect. I had a few hours to kill and so saw to a few jobs at an Internet cafe. At this point, I would like to give my thanks to the staff at Boomtown Internet Cafe for their attentiveness, helpfulness and patience, especially Chris Larson who saved my life. In fact, my brief experience in Denmark led me to believe that, when it comes to great service, there is nothing like a Dane. Nothing in the world. There is nothing you can tame that is anything like a Dane. As always, I spent a little too long on the net and found myself running to catch up with the masses of people flooding into the centre of town. One could really tell that the preliminaries were over and the important stages of the World Cup had started. There were easily a hundred thousand people there. It was by far the biggest group I have seen on my European tour to date. I was dragging my backpack around the crowd looking for a decent spot when the Danish national anthem started up. The crowd joined in, but if anyone knew the words it did not show. They moaned and groaned their way through it making the sorts of noises that one unfamiliar with the noises of whales might imagine be the sort that they make. I had not reckoned on the difficulty of finding a decent viewing position. I really could not get a proper feel for the crowd on the ground, so tried to join the mayhem those climbing tall structures. They seemed to have the right idea, but they did not have twenty odd kilograms (until recently about a quarter of my weight, now probably getting close to a third) of backpack strapped to their back. For a short while, I tried valiantly to climb onto a ship's container, but my travel insurance does not cover overt acts of stupidity, so I gave up. Not something I do lightly. Then, inspiration! Up above, on a swanky third floor balcony, was a small group of people having a nice little party, enjoying a perfect view. I lumbered over and begged to be let up. "I'm a journalist" I cried. It really is a good line. "Are you English?" They eyed me with suspicion. "No, I'm Australian? I hate the English" I lied, gritting my teeth, betraying my year living in London and many fine English loved ones and friends. And you know what? By the time kick off was upon me, I was sitting on a balcony with the best view in the house sucking down a cold 'Tuborg'. I was stunned. I revelled in the moment for a short while, but then Danish disaster struck. England scored. I suddenly felt terribly guilty up there on that balcony. And, if anything were to be thrown off in frustration, the obvious choice would be me. I sunk down lower into my seat hoping that, with my pale skin and bloodshot eyes, I might be able to fade away into all the Danish flags below. A haze grew on the horizon. There was a storm moving in. And sure enough, along came another England goal. Things were really was dark now. "Are you sure you're not English?" "I am certain" I said, fumbling for my passport, more scared than at any border patrol. Someone had killed the sound on the big screen. It really is amazing the way so many people can make so little sound if the circumstances are right. It felt like a state funeral and after a third England goal, Denmark was dead. The half ended and I said my farewells. I was grateful for the experience (thanks Mikkel), but the mood had grown heavy and I wanted to see what was going on down at ground level. I was able to move more freely now, the crowd having thinned out. With the rain coming in and England looking a sure thing, it was hardly a surprise. There did not seem to be much fun about, just a lot of people getting upset and drunk. Earlier, on my way to the square, I had seen 'the Old English Pub' and thought it might be worth a quick look. There was an angry mob of Danes camped out on the doorstep and the bouncers were not letting anyone in, so I flashed my press credentials (!) and was escorted inside. Here they were: England's ex-pat community boldly wearing their colours and having a right royal time. The second half started and they were happy and loud, chanting in full voice. Just a snippet of what I suspected was going on across the North Sea. The place was also full of English press. I chatted with some of them (always good to mix with one's contemporaries) and even picked up a free beer from a fellow from 'The News of the World'. Two for the day. I was pleased with my score, but concluded that the place was not really my angle and headed back to the square. This time, I positioned myself directly under the screen. Right in the line of fire. And it was. Bottles rained down from the frustrated crowd. I hung around for a while just to see if I would get hit on the head to give me something interesting to write about, but soon thought better of it. I had to catch a train in a few hours and could not afford any injury time. The match crawled along to the sky's thunders and groans. I ducked into the fancy 'Palace Bar' and the 'Abralen'. The mood was sombre all around. The game ended. The sky opened up and dropped monstrous amounts of rain on everyone just to remind them that life in Denmark was to go on as usual. The locals were of course desperately disappointed and though some were aggressive, I would have to say that most took it pretty well and were going to make a good time of it anyway. I paddled towards Sweden, soaked to the skin, ever so grateful for such a fine day and for picking up that much needed shower after all?

Memory of my father

'Friends' in dire places...

Does little Tommy's snowman really talk to him?

monkey from branch at the same angle

Et tu ! Paul MCartney !