The Steaming Beast
Spring has sprung and new blossoms burst. Hungered by the lack of fuel, the compost heap beckons him from across the garden, angry steam rising up from its core of planned decay, a foundation for rebirth and a new life in mulch. He approaches the beast and tosses the heap; leaves, scraps of food, eggshells,
The East End
Stilettos and hard black shoes, clack-clack, they walk the Christmas pavement. City dwellers and workers rush to the tube and pubs for warmth and bitters and peanuts in chipped glasses on soft napkins, moist from frothy beer. Shitty, spitty pavements, fag ends and chewing gum circles. Cold whores in skimpy numbers trying to think straight,
Harvey
‘Blair secret promise to Bush on Iraq Invasion’ On my table, a newspaper, gin and tonic, and a tin of cashews. Tabloid revelations, the nation shocked, no surprise. Deathly silence all around except for muffled whispers about lamb stew, marble cake, and household renovations. No background music, no crooners, no big band. The Prince Albert,
