Dangers of an Idle Mind

The Pool Party My black Honda 250 turns onto an avenue, trees in full leafy bloom on either side. The street is so wide it could be a high street in dirty inner London, where I lived my first nineteen years. Hell, they've even got speed bumps and no litter. I'm feeling good in my new clothes, a small fortune spent at the trendier Tooting Broadway shops this afternoon. A little out of my element in those boutique places but Fashion and Design students expect a certain level of up to ‘dateness’. My fancy friends tried explaining to me about the pool at the house. They tried, but boys from Balham don't find it easy to understand how an enclosed pool can be attached to a house. At my school, the poshest kid didn’t even have a garden shed. Now I’m at Shawn, or Sean’s (I can never remember which), house. Seven thirty prompt, as instructed. My leather jacket and helmet locked on the bike outside. I’m in the pool area. It’s incredible - blue water and as long as the Queen’s Speech ...

  Another blast of wind rocked the caravan and smacked fat, heavy raindrops against the thin windows, open a crack for ventilation. It was Sunday lunchtime, and I was looking through the grey rain at some of the gaily, and now shiny, coloured holiday caravans that punctuated the large field. Beyond the furthest caravan a line of sycamore trees separated the campsite from the shingle beach, which in turn edged the English Channel. The Wessex Coast in May was always a bit of a gamble weather-wise, and I smugly congratulated myself, again, on deciding to rent this two-bed-with-TV-shower-and-cooker permanent caravan, instead of bringing our frame tent and camping.    Behind me Ben and Max were lethargically watching Sunday cartoons on TV. Ben was nearly 6 while Max was 4 and this was our boy’s weekend. It hadn’t originally been planned as a boy’s weekend, but their mother had decided I needed  bonding time  with my sons. It was it was not lost on me how the requirem...

The Greenhouse by The Tin Man The garden was vast, walled in by stone so high it seemed to hold back the sky. Ivy clung to those walls, thick and tangled like my mind. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth, sweet flowers, and something I couldn't name. Bees and butterflies moved from bloom to bloom, absorbed in their own busy roles. I walked with the old lady. Her lined face and white hair bore witness to years of tending to this oasis. She spoke softly, her blue-grey eyes sparkled as she talked, pointing out her successes and other places where work still needed doing. The greens were lush, and some overgrown, brushing against my legs—knee-high ferns, hip-high grasses, leaves that shimmered with dew or shook dismissively in a gentle breeze. This, I thought, is peace. I glanced down at myself and was struck, but not upset or shocked, by the strangeness. The clothes weren’t mine. I was not in my body. The shirt hung differently, the shoes pinched. I was wearing someone el...