Photo by Erin Cho on Unsplash

Such a fine, sunny day, and I have to go… What does my death matter, if through us, thousands of people are awakened and stirred to action?
Sophie Scholl

It was Friday at the start of an unseasonably fine and beautiful spring weekend. My wife and I had been out on afternoon errands in the car and had swung by a local shopping arcade close by a favoured Nepalese restaurant.

Before us was an unusual scene, which took some time to process.

Parked in the pedestrian crossing at the entrance to the car park was a large white delivery truck…


Much kudos to Danish illustrator John Kenn for his fiendish visions

I recently bought an hourglass — an antiquated artefact that measures time by the passing of individual grains of sand through a narrow neck from one bloated glass chamber to another. As a sealed unit, the grains pile and tumble silently between, flowing backwards and forwards one hour to the next, turn for turn — at least until the moment, as yet unspecified when it shatters into a million glass fragments and the grains of time trapped in its dimensions dissipate.

As I sit here writing, I am aware of the ticking of a large wall mounted clock in the…


Long before the age of the takeaway (unless you include the much feted but generally disappointing British delicacy, fish and chips), and the malign influence of the microwave TV dinner, most people cooked their own food. I came from a working family, one of three sons so you can imagine that home-cooked family meals were a focal point for filling a belly.

My mother coming from an Irish background did great slow cook stews and casseroles and my father with his half Chinese roots added a distinctly pleasant mix of other more exotic ingredients and spices to our dinner table.


Photo by Fábio Lucas on Unsplash

Denial is the dark mirror of acceptance. In its darkness it offers a more comfortable state to live in; its attraction is undeniable. It’s a lot like sleep — a pleasant warm bubble suspended from laws of space and time — only you are awake.

I confess to denial — the very act of writing this piece has been pushed back, poked and prodded like a cat with a half dead mouse. But this time I will finish the writing and let you consume it — maybe…

Have you ever tried to observe yourself falling asleep? The veil between consciousness…


Photo by United Nations COVID-19 Response on Unsplash

This morning I woke up and approached my smartphone in the same manner that people open cellar doors in horror films. In actual fact, I couldn’t bring myself to open the phone and my youngest daughter was the first to wave a visual map of America stained red under my nose.

I am neither religious or American, but I was, and still am praying for a victory for Biden/Harris (whether my religious convictions last beyond that, they certainly won’t under any Trump administration). …


Photo by Sandy Millar on Unsplash

Disgust is one of those universally experienced emotions which, over time seems to have evolved in line with us as an advanced species. In its most basic form, it’s that rising sense of nausea and skin crawl you get when you for example, bite into an apple to reveal half a worm’s corruption. The sensation of disgust is so palpable that it acts like a pre-warning immune system. Before antibiotics and refrigeration, it might have been your best bet against food poisoning, and in many ways it still is.

Then there is sexual disgust which is apparently a two component…


Photo by Sholto Ramsay on Unsplash

The weight of guilt

Guilt is powerful thing. It carries much weight — the baggage of revenant regrets, the heavy load of things that have been done and cannot be undone.

According to psychologists, humans develop the capacity for it already by age two and over a lifetime of deeds and misdeeds, it accrues, like money in the bank for everyone to pore over and mull in their own privately created misery pools. Except, of course, for psychopaths.

In the absence of any kind of moral compass, they leave in their wake, a path of destruction, broken relations, abandoned children…


In marketing land, they break down users into bands on a curve based on the adoption rates of goods or services. It starts out with the innovators — the smug select band of people who get a cool product or have been selected by their influencer profile by marketeers to play and promote. That gets followed up by the early adopters, the early and late majorities (the ‘me too’ gang playing catch up) and keeping up the unfashionable rear, the late adopters otherwise known as the laggards (aka schmucks).

I’m a self-declared laggard. It’s not any kind of shame to…


Photo by Holger Link on Unsplash

Faced with information overload, we have no alternative but pattern-recognition.
Marshall McLuhan

If you are reading this post, you will probably have noticed there is a typo in the title (if you didn’t, there’s an ‘r’ missing in the last word). If you work with words, I bet you probably spotted it right away, and if you didn’t, well, you didn’t…

In actual fact, this idea for the post has been floating around in my head for an age — it’s a little bit of the small world big world dialectic thing — those persistent imperfections that capture our attention…


Photo by chuttersnap on Unsplash

I’m sure this is a title that many a great writer has put at the top of the page but in all instances, anybody who writes for a living (even the worst of us) should examine their motives and come up with some kind of sensible answer — if only to themselves. If anything, for me at least, it should have been titled ‘Why I don’t write’ but that would be a subject for another blog (talk to my wife).

And while we are talking about great artists, the ones who inevitably attract critics like shaggy dogs attract fleas, here’s…

Inkwell

Illuminating the dark corners of my mind with thoughts and words.

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