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I am a writer of novels, plays and film scripts. I live in Manchester England with my partner Andy and our teenage son Jack. Andy and I started my Newsletter Raw Meat and began publishing with Rawprintz in 1999 to showcase my work. Some of you may be confused by my continual references to Ziggy, that’s my wheelchair! Both Andy and I are writers. I’ve recently lost my sight – hence the continual reference to my being confused! Thanks for visiting.

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Writer's Island Whimsy

For Writer’s Island, this week inspired by the word Whimsy.


… Going back twenty, thirty years to the room I used to share with my twin sister. Was it really decorated in purple? She had painted on the walls, copied meticulously from the covers of records… strange creatures like the Squonk with it’s trail of tears behind him, all that intricate detail which I so envied… I envied my sister, envied all the valentines, the medals, ability to draw stares of attention. The twin beds were completely dissimilar the covers unmatched deliberately to make us individual as we were in reality - from two separate eggs, nothing to do with each other. A rift grew up between us and slowly widened… I watched the collection of small china creatures grow upon our windowsill, the woodland creatures she collected so carefully, the hedgehogs, the rabbits… a chipped ear or two amongst them, I’m sure. My sister moved the china animals so that they wouldn’t face in the sunlight… and still I watched from the outside, unravelling the memories like thread, leading me back into the labyrinth. For what purpose though am I dredging up these memories, mere self indulgence is it? Nobody else shared that space with me and so these empty words are only written for me, Whimsy’s for me.

I look out the window into the garden, the childhood garden which encapsulated the whole thing, the whole childhood memory. The smell of decay and damp filling my nostrils as I approach the old, broken down garage at the end of the lawn. I used to play tennis by myself for hours, bouncing the ball against the back door of the garage… and what’s the point of resurrecting all these ancient memories now? Is it all quite purposeless… self indulgent drivel for nobody but myself? I used to watch for frogs jumping in the greenhouse, for it was completely overgrown and all the panes of glass were smashed… or at least some of them. So I would sit with the greenhouse door open and watch the long grass move silently as frogs moved with them. This childhood, this garden, still with me now… every piece I loved, the ancient stone sundial, all lost, all faded completely.


  1. Lovely write. Like both Oscar Wilde and your prose.


    It is Monday again, I sincerely invite you to join us for a Monday Poetry Potluck party, bring in 1 to 3 poem treats to share via the link on the top! You could use an old poem.

    love your blog,
    nice to meet.


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