Cherrypicked stories

A letter to the one that got away.

Blue skies. (my thoughts crowded) Under the largest sky I had ever seen, my thoughts crowded. Sifting the sand through my fingers in a continual...

Nobody knew where he came from the odd little man just appeared in the pub one night.

He was the man of her fantasies.

The therapist felt herself being analysed under the steady glare of her client

Time can't be messed with, what will be will be.

I A Styrofoam wedding preceded the cakestorm. As we all stood and bickered An egret went unnoticed There, in the leatherclad treetops, Spotted only...

The duck The duck had an ugly patch of blood on its back. No feathers, just gore and skin, neat oblong, razed like a mown graveyard plot in the midst...

Subverting themes of catwalk church, We haul around heroic weights, A monument to lifetime crates Knocked back in life-and-death research: The butt...

Post-natal depression

An estranged father awaits his sons execution

To the broken and the lonely.

Thoughts and observations in a supermarket car park

"Bring buns," says Lita, chuckling into the phone. "Buns for Lita," she trills. I know that buns for Lita are not ordinary buns, three for a quid at...

England was ecstatic. Millions planned to take sickies to watch the big match. The whole country wanted to see if their team could improve on their lacklustre draw with Sweden. Arch rivals, Argentina, awaited. The Falklands was nothing. THIS would be war! I did not care. I was having a day off. My own little sickie. I had about forty-eight hours to move out of London and too much to occupy my mind and my time to worry about football. First, there were the Romanians. Leaving a country involves a lot of small jobs, house clearing by no means the smallest. My partner, Deb and I had a complete collection of household items with no house to hold them. It was time to put something back. For a year, I had spent my Saturdays shuffling between charity shops, searching for bargains so easily found. Even now, I sit in a Marks &;amp; Spencer spencer. Not bought from M&;amp;S itself, heaven forbid, but from the Romanian's store that I so loved. Mostly, because it enabled me to achieve my dream of buying a second hand dinner suit which I have since worn with pride to many a fine function. Of all the local options, Deb and I had selected the Romanians as the worthiest the recipients of all our rubbish. By now, all those orphans must have grown up and made more. Things must be out of control! We made multiple trips lugging great bags of guff to two grateful old ladies who sat sharing a puff. They tore through the bags and positioned our shared life about on their shelves. I hoped that our lives would enrich someone else's. Or at least help a few orphans of orphans. A Union Jack caught my eye. It was one of many postcards I had bought, but never sent (sorry Mum!). They had been scattered around the store in unabashed pride. I thought of the match. I felt I really should watch it and squeeze in a report. I could surely make time. There was one hour until kick off, but still an important job remained. On my back, I was carrying about twenty kilos in coins. A year's worth of any man's emptied pockets (and one hell of successful poker game). I needed to unload. There was a bank just nearby, but it had a terribly slow moving queue. Someone was probably trying to open an account and the staff were preoccupied with the necessary fingerprinting, interrogating and beatings out back. There can be no institution that resists being given money as much as an England bank. The pre-requisites to opening an account are so arduous that I have heard some thirty percent of the population never bother and just go without and account. Can you imagine that? Never dealing with a bank! Lucky bastards. Standing outside the bank, I was inspired to watch the match in the financial district of London. 'The City', as it is known. I was curious to see how the suited ones appreciated the game and there would of course be plenty of banks in which to deposit my change. As if reading my mind, a bum approached. "Got any spare change?" "No" I instinctively lied, almost struggling to stand. I may not have been pin striped, but I could definitely cut it in the City, I thought assessing my meanness as I jangled away. I made it to the tube, luckily via a bank which lightened both my mood and my load. I stood at Tottenham Court Road tube station thirteen minutes before kick off. A tube was due in two minutes. It would take seven minutes to reach Bank, the City's main tube station, giving me exactly four minutes to find a pub before kick off. No problem. After seeing Ireland's late goal against Germany, I did not doubt what could be achieved in a matter of seconds. With two hundred and forty up my sleeve, I should make it with still some to spare. I sprung from the labyrinth that is Bank tube station and streamed down Cheapside like a racehorse without weight. I bolted into an office staffed (or 'manned' as they prefer to say in the City) by a super helpful secretary. On her advice, I flew to the 'City Tap', a smallish bar with a good group of suits huddled around a television, no bigger than the one that sat in my home. (The one I should have been out trying to sell at that very moment.) I made it for kick off. Four for four so far. My pint of 'Kroenenberg' did not make my hand quite in time, but the City is not Dublin, so what to expect? The game started and the scent of competition hung strong in the air, rising above the Armani and Versace and, I hoped, sweaty me. These guys wanted to win. Not just football, but every damned thing in their lives. I reflected on shameful memories of kicking over chessboards in games against my brother, only slightly my junior. Perhaps I could fit in here. Then, someone spotted me writing. "What's this? A university project?" Misplaced in my surrounds due to Romanian mothballs. The match seemed a little quiet, so I studied the room. I noticed the 'shot of the month' was 'Liquid Cocaine' which seemed to have about as much point as powdered pints at a Beer Fest. For thirty-six pounds, one could buy a jug of 'Chambull': a bottle of bubbly, three shots of vodka, two red bulls and a slice of orange. In a jug. If only I still had my coins. Then an explosion! A near goal bounced off the post. Exuberant shouts followed by now seemingly universal hands placed on heads. Although, something did not seem quite right. Claps from above? I had not been upstairs. Could there be Argentineans about? I went up to hunt around. If they were in there, they melded into the masses watching two smaller sets. Pin stripped camouflage. The match progressed and very late in the second half England's captain dished out a bloody nose with no recompense. The room shared a laugh. Stories were exchanged of bloodied noses given or received after big nights out (on the Chambull no doubt.) Almost immediately afterwards, someone hit the deck and England was awarded a penalty. England's captain, centre screen again, took the penalty and scored! Double fists in the air! (From yours truly as well. I could not help it I'm afraid.) England's captain now a champion on two counts for the game. First he scored a blood nose and now a goal from a penalty. The irony was completely lost on the crowd. But who cares? A goal is a goal and the crowd celebrated it with vigour? "We love England, we do, We love England, we do." Half time. Time for my run. I wanted to suck on a slice of orange instead, but everyone knows oranges go with Chambull, so I decided to pass. I mis-followed some directions past 'Fuego', a tapas bar which had expanded its interests beyond inflating its prices and deflating its serving sizes to football. It was full of flat punters and there was still time to run, so it was run that I did. I ducked into a street, promisingly named Brewers Garden Hill, and emerged to find 'the Globe'. I squeezed in to discover not just the 'suits' I had expected, but rather a mix of all sorts. Next door, 'the John Keats' was a touch more up market. It proudly displayed a framed 'Pledge to maintain high standards of cleanliness on these premises'. A pledge kept, I expect, by sweeping the filth through the door into the adjoining Globe. Ridiculous, the way such venues are so artificially divided and even more so the way we abide such divisions. I stayed with the suits for a pint of 'Carling' (of all things) to await the second half. England came out firing to miss some close shots at goal. The crowd clapped and smiled. The joy I had found in the City Tap had not been lost on the lot in John Keats. As the game moved along, the television seemed to stall. It jumped and jerked concealing the result of a fine England attack. The room's breath was bated, the outcome only revealed by the "ohs" of the viewers of the working televisions in the Globe next door. Yet not a soul moved. The suits stood in their place, preferring to risk missing the match than mixing with scum. I, on the other hand, mix very well with scum and so moseyed into the Globe to investigate. My entrance was welcomed with a chant: "Eng-a-land, Eng-a-land, Eng-a-land..." Cheers lads! Wrong country for me, but thanks all the same. The game progressed very well for Ol' Blighty. Everyone was feeling good. Feeling jolly. Feeling victorious (though not there quite yet)! The vibe in the room seemed to transgress the thousands of miles to Sapporo where England were performing fantastically well. Their attacks were bold. Their defence was defiant. We all felt the game would be theirs. Five minutes left and the chants grew louder. With two minutes to go, the room bounced on its toes. They smiled nervously. Hands rubbed heads to sooth away stress. Oh God let them have it! Such expectation must surely be met. And then, at last, the final whistle! England had done it! They had beaten the great Argentina! Their Cup hopes alive! I wore a kiss on my head and bounced around joining in the group hugs. The emotion, it seethed. Tears welled all around. More from relief than from joy, or so it seemed to me. While the draw in Ireland gave me more noise, this result, the first victory I have seen, gave me my most emotional response thus far. There may not be another people for whom the World Cup is so dear. On the street, the rain drizzled down while the cars honked on past. I trotted back to Bank tube station, passing smiles all the way. It felt a shame to be leaving London now, though I may soon be back. Who knows? Could 1966 come back to this land that has so longed for its return? I cannot help but hope so. Not to get ahead of myself. Back to dehoming my home and then on to continue the plan. Belgium awaits...

In Poole Harbour no one can hear you scream

a woman's apathy for her husband and child

Remember the trepidation and butterflies of that first date&;#063;

About the Silence... Do you enjoy the Silence&;#063;

My alarm erupted to wake me predawn. It was about the same time of day that I went to bed the day/night before. I'd spent much of the last twenty four hours sleeping, but my body's clock was well out and I felt far from recovered. I knew I would not be alone. The whole of England would soon be stirring after enjoying an extra long weekend to mark the Queen's Golden Jubilee. It was an irrelevancy for me as it was for so many. I pondered whether the million or so who spent yesterday parading the streets will wonder what they were celebrating as they grumbled their way from 'two ups' to 'two downs' and onto their jobs to do that thing that Her Maj never will... work. Still as an Australian, England's Queen is my Queen. Our un-elected anachronism who will probably remain so for as long as our elected arachnid, John Howard, remains our PM. 'However will we get rid of him?' I wondered and then quitely remembered my fine for failing to vote at an election just passed. I shook off my dreams of a Republic back home and roused myself with thoughts of the one just next door. The Republic of Ireland. A land that would probably be soon taking a drubbing at the hands of Germany. Though, in Ireland, even a wake gives reason to celebrate. Of course, then there is always the luck of the Irish. And, at the start of this day, I could use all I could get. I was tempting fate as I embarked on my too tight itinerary. I was booked on an early flight from London to Dublin and set to arrive barely an hour before kick off. If things did not go exactly to plan, I would be watching the match in a smokeless, yet airless, airport bar drinking Guinness from a leprechaun's can. As Murphy's Law would have it, things did not begin well. I slipped into the tube network thoughtless and ticketless, still of the mindset of my days of employment when there was always a weekly travelcard in my pocket where twenty pounds should have sat. Liverpool Street Station and I was shaken down. A full year and a thousand pounds worth of honest journeys amounted to naught as I stood desperately debating and my train to the airport idled cruelly away. I was sin-binned to a queue which shuffled so slowly. I didn't mind buying a ticket, even two, but the penalty of time was the greatest of all. Perhaps as a reward for my patience, though forced, I received a commemorative Queen's Jubilee ticket. How precious! How unique! Oh how I would treasure it, I thought as I inserted it into a ticket machine. It must have felt the same way because it kept my ticket. I'd have to wait another twenty five years for a new one. I'll bet the old bag will still be on the throne then too. I found another train and checked in just in time to join an unsettled group of would be, soon to be, many by now should have been... passengers. Hoards of disgruntled tuned into the chimes. Constant announcements of flights being delayed. I learned of one, two, even three hour delays. Things were looking bad. Then came my turn: "This is an announcement for passengers travelling on flight FR207 to Dublin..." Holding of breath! Crossing of fingers! Scanning for clover! "...your flight has been delayed..." Oh crap! "...for fifteen minutes." Sweet relief and hope once again - I still stood a chance! Fifteen minutes clearly meant the same to the airport as it oft does to me, growing into a good half an hour. A tortuous time of listening to chimes. Planes were dropping like flies. Or not, as it were, each and every delay being blamed on a late inbound flight. Someone else's fault, the unapologetic implication. Finally, on board my plane. I met an Irish woman and child who helped me relax and feel grateful. They had missed a flight the day before and spent an uncomfortable night on the airport floor. Still chipper and upbeat, they offered me sweets and made me look ever more forward to my day in Dublin, though all too brief it would be. We touched down about a half an hour before kick off and I made my usual airport run, weaving through crowds of irate husbands anxiously waiting for late arrivals, feeling certain to miss the game. It was a fate to which I had not yet resigned. A bus from the airport to town. Half an hour guessed the driver. Just maybe I would make it. The journey through Dublin was all that I'd hoped. Every terrace and shop window displayed Ireland's colours. Every car, just the same. Dubliners strutted the streets. The recent one-all draw with Cameroon had seen spirits soar. The Irish felt invincible, or at least eminently drawable, and suddenly Germany was a welcome foe. Ten minutes before kick off, after six hours of mad travelling, I stood well rewarded, a pint of Guinness in my hand. It was to the 'Foggy Den' that I had been directed. It is in Dublin's Temple Bar area which is riddled with pubs (being a part of Ireland). Wood beams exposed, tightly enclosed, the 'Foggy Den' held a healthy number of locals and a few red headed thugs. It looked promising. Anthem time and only a few stood, shuffling their feet. Not a soul sang. It was a manner of pride with which I could relate, where the a pint of the nation's frothy black sin commands more respect and attention than some outdated hymn. Game on! A mere two minutes elapsed and saw the crowd to its feet and me give a shout, my first of the tournament (and I very nearly blushed.) No goal, but a promise of excitement. I was desperate to see this lot running mad on the streets. C'mon Ireland! There was optimism early on and they kept pouring in. The Guinnesses were racked up by the dozen. I had downed my first within minutes, caught up in the exuberance. I thought it best to slow down. If Ireland were to win, I'd be on the pub crawl of my life. Oh, just one more pint before half time couldn't hurt. Infectious lot, the Irish. En route to my pint and then devastation. A soft goal for Germany. A great groan of pain from the pub. A knife to the country's collective heart. Passions were raised as the team struggled on. However, I was heartened to see that humour was not lost. A quick shot of Ireland's unhappy bench provoked quite a few laughs. I thought it showed an impressive ability to laugh at oneself and admirable appreciation of the endless comic value of pain. Cheers Ireland. The first half continued poorly for my adopted side. The only highlight being a blow to the head of a German defender. Laugh and applause all around. Pain always funnier, of course, when felt by someone else. At half time, I ducked out for a run. I had no problem with the 'Foggy Dew', I quite liked it in fact, but on the way there I'd spotted the 'All Sports Cafe', a sizable venue that I though may bring action. It proved to be a faceless venue. It was certainly full, but empty all the same. I scooted across the road to 'The Auld Dubliner'. There were a great many bar staff serving and with the noise it well showed. By the bar was a plaque: 'The James Joyce Award for being an Authentic Dublin Pub' awarded for "genuineness, friendliness and the presence of good company." I sized up the crowd. They were scraggly and rowdy. Pock marked skin and beer bellies abounded. They looked like damned good company to me, so once again I stood, cold pint in my hand, and waited on the game. The second half began offering little for Ireland. There was a bit of rough-necking against Germany's goalkeeper which pleased the pub and inspired some shouts and laughs. It gave way to the first chant of my day: "C'mon you boys in green, C'mon you boys in green, C'mon you boys, C'mon you boys in green." It didn't really last though and soon enough the pub was all quiet, except for a buxom young Australian girl, cackling in the corner. Typical football philistine. As time ticked on, things began to get messy. I overheard an invitation to fight. There were ugly gestures at the screen. Two young German women passed by the window, showing off a little early, receiving the abuse sought and deserved. The unrest was growing. "Jaysis lads!" they cried in despair. Then, at last, with not even a minute to spare, Ireland scored a inspired late goal and oh what a roar! They nearly screamed the screen off the wall! The room bounced and heaved. Arms all in arms. The game had ended, but the chanting seemed it would never would. "Jaysis lads!" they cried in delight. I floated out of the pub, riding high on the roars. I I ducked into 'Dublin's Left Bank' where they had all fallen silent, listening to their coach giving praise to the fans which was graciously received. I passed 'Quay's Bar' where the "Ole's" echoed strong. I went into 'Fitzsimons', a dark drinking den, where they were still cheering replays. Rapture claimed the streets now. Dedicated groups of young men inspired each other on to sing of success. It was wonderful to finally be part of a win, well a draw perhaps, but it was good enough for an underrated footballing nation with enormous hopes, now perhaps justified. There would be a whole day of this. A day not to be missed. As I type, I can still hear the noise. Joyous slurred chants. I can hear them calling me. I'm off to get drunk! There should be plenty of time to sleep it off before I see you in Belgium...

a mountain top emerging from the mist

Chapter One

There was a time when I thought of nothing else but you Of you waiting on the sand as I waded out to sea Wincing as urchins snagged my feet, gulls...

My smiling eyes grow dim As memories of sun: In this walled winter Day dawns stillborn. Hopes fall, frosted fruit To rot into doubt at my feet. I...

A door slams, glass breaks She shudders in her bed. A voice screams, a fist smacks She hides, buries her head. Footsteps sound, a door creaks She...

Sleep well my toxic trauma...

My tortured little heart didn't know mommies and daddies knew how. They always said it was okay, but I didn't think they were allowed. I watched in...

Humorous Story

A sister tired of waiting in the wings.