There was that time in Bournemouth. One of the summer holidays of guaranteed sunshine. I was about six years old and one afternoon I had my portrait done by a woman near to the beach. It was done in pastels, I think. It must have been pastels because they smudged, and if you rubbed a patch the colour came off on your finger. The artist signed it. I was very happy with the portrait. Go and show it to people, said Mum, said Dad. Show it around. In the guest house. I ran down to the kitchens. ‘Look at this,’ … Continue reading PASTEL

the first day of summer

The heat came early in the morning from nowhere, and by the afternoon it was pressing down on all sides. The first day of summer, I called it. Roddy said it was just a phantom. We closed the curtains and sat around without clothes. My back was slick with sweat, and the backs of my knees. He touched me there, but made a face and wiped his hand on the couch. We argued about it. I went to the garden. He stayed inside. He sent me an SMS, from the house to the garden, full of typos and nonsense chat. … Continue reading the first day of summer