white rocks

When I was younger I did something bad. I think about it now and my stomach still swoops, clenched with guilt and embarrassment. I remember the rasp of the pencil against the rock, the satisfying shock of a dark line against the shell white of the virgin stone. Then I remember the way it wouldn’t…

a chat with Gran

I’m just waiting for my eggs to boil. Eight minutes, rapid boiling mind, as I want them for my lunch tomorrow. Did I tell you about tomorrow? I’m sure I did, you must have forgotten. The Probus group are all going out to Matamata for Shirley Henderson’s roses. Beautiful white ones she has, I’ve never…