A place that forged me no longer exists. Stafford Leisure Centre was razed to the ground long ago, but I have such potent memories of it. Of the sparkly Blackcurrent drink that the vending machine spewed out for 35p. The inexplicable tannoy announcements of ‘211140 to Z2’, and the sillhouettes of folks walking to the … More The Diving Pool
Early morning Sun lit your strong hands as you cradled the roots. Brows knit in concentration, tenderly lowering the blooms. Patting the soil as softly as I used to dry your tiny, unfurling limbs, when this was your bath. Your deep, Brown eyes look at your handiwork, then duelling crows on our rooftop drew you … More Nurture
I look at me three decades ago. Or you, rather. I’m unrecognisable now. Every cell thrice renewed. I wish I could take your head between my hands, Look in to your eyes and say ‘Your mind is wired strangely. Talk to people about it, in all its frenzied energy’. I would say ‘Swim every day. … More Oh Dear Me
Now here’s a room of requirement: Loft space, bedroom, storeroom (in that order). Murals turned in to hieroglyphs. Bedding for all, from babies to the aged. The whole slowly moving family museum as cluttered and muddled as my subconscious. Hermetically sealed, save for exploratory recce’s. As dusty yet expectant as Haversham’s gaff. … More Room of Requirement
What follows is a Christmas story. I have written it for all of the lovely people who read my blog. Thank you all. Wholeheartedly. Tom Tide. ———————— They were all worn out and grumpy, and as if she had read his thoughts the stamping started. Glancing down at the drooping antlers and shuffling hooves in … More God Jul. A Christmas Story.
I love Brutalist Architecture. I love it. I love the size and the shape and the colours (or lack of colours) of it. I feel strongly about it. To me, it is anything but brutal. It is sublime and sculptural, and makes me feel immediately fascinated yet humbled whenever I see it. As an appreciator … More Brutalism
It is not the unwrapping of trinkets. It is an unveiling of cherished times. Memories, crystalised in glass and glitter long dormant, now fresh With new discovery. Curve and colour released from winding cloths; Buried treasure rediscovered. It is not a tree, but a pennant. Colours nailed to the mast, to glorify another year … More Unwrap
I can see why it happened. I can. I really can. I can even see how I may have contributed to it. Perhaps. My wife removes the ‘may’part. But when it happened it was awful. My mind clouds. All I could manage was a gutteral ‘OH FUCK’, and a lunge towards the household aisle. Where did this … More I’m the King of the Castle!
I wish I could see the world through his eyes.
As I write this, Mark Knopfler’s gravelly voice and gently strummed guitar flow through my head. Like a fine wine, his musicianship and performing has matured and become richer with time. Originally the lead vocalist of 1970’s rock band Dire Straits, he has now become an Internationally applauded solo artist. Why am I so … More Growing up with Knopfler