Posted by: ireneintheworld on: August 29, 2008
It smelled of old grass and Magnolia paint. My brother and I would ease our bodies in backwards pulling the door shut through coats hanging on the inside, jangling half-crowns and florins – Fanny Hill lay on the top shelf. Sometimes, there would be pickles and cheese in Dad’s pocket with [...]
Posted by: ireneintheworld on: August 21, 2008
Sundays were a trial, whit wi straw hats an elastic under yir chin, an orders Don’t sit doon ootside; nae paddlin in the burn; an straight hame; an make sure the minister disney find oot yir cousins ur cathlicks; don’t let them cross thersells – tell them there’s nae holy watter left. My God! [...]
Posted by: ireneintheworld on: July 29, 2008
Most dragons belched fire: old Sarah screamed a brown stream from her nose she breathed dust from screwed-up paper bags and sparkled her eyes with a brown-stained hankerchief (one of many that shared the washing line with knee-length pink knickers). She dwelt in huge Paisley-patterned tents that wrapped and scooped [...]
Posted by: ireneintheworld on: July 27, 2008
When I was a child my father was a moth; my mother would take the Sunday stew off the gas and hide it in a cupboard in case he ate it in passing spoonfuls – Saturday nights he fluttered in and out of the street lamp’s light. We waited for our pickled [...]
