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...

*This post was originally published in October 2008 (I was alluding to more than winter BTW). I have slightly changed some of the wording this time. It's still my personal favourite. One for the Fall lovers. I awoke this morning in my southern New England home to the sound of the wind pushing against the house. Outside the sky was a crisp blue. The multi-colour leaves of autumn were lining up like golden sky-divers; waiting for their cue to leap from the trees and then tumble and dance down the hilly road. The wind breathed excitement and animation outside my window. Until recently the heavy foliage of summer had stopped it from reaching the green frog that hangs, unspinning, over my deck. But now that the fall has come you can see patches of sky again and the frog spins madly throwing off spirals of reflected light. Speedy, Sparky and their friends that inhabit the grassy bank, are nervous. The sweet smelling autumn wind moves everything and drowns out the normal sounds of safe...

Although by ten O’clock the late August sun was already high and warm in a spotless blue sky, the nights had been getting cooler; it wouldn’t be long until the harvest. I stopped the old tractor and killed the engine; silence washed into the vacuum left by the rusty motor’s noise. From the driver’s saddle I could look down across the shallow valley at our three large fields of corn. I found myself wondering again how the crop could wash and ripple across the fields even on perfectly still days like this. It can be mesmerizing and the ocean is only broken by the straight narrow strip of the road to St. Martenne. The highway may be a normal two lane road but at this point in the summer the corn crowds to its edges giving the impression of a narrow avenue. Looking to far end of the road I saw the blue convertible appear. Since the middle of July it had passed by every morning at this time. It is why I too, was here again. The car sped between our fields, parting the golden sea. The faw...

I awoke this morning in my southern New England home to the sound of the wind pushing against the house. Outside the sky was a crisp blue. The multi-colour leaves of autumn were lining up like golden sky-divers; waiting for their cue to leap from the trees and then tumble and dance down the hilly road. The wind breathes excitement and animation outside my window. The heavy foliage of summer stops the hanging green frog from spinning over our deck. But now the fall has come and the cover is thinned, so that you can see patches of sky, the frog spins madly throwing off spirals of reflected light. Speedy, Sparky and their friends that inhabit the grassy bank, are nervous. The sweet smelling autumn wind moves everything and drowns out the normal sounds of safety. The change of air is tangible to them as they stand on their hind legs, twitching and sniffing. The small mammals are obvious now because they are the only stationary things. Ironic that they should be so exposed by the very act ...