My favourite weather is overcast; the sensation of casual fascination and unstipulated terror, the massage therapist not holding a pillow terminally over your face, the bus passenger not stabbing his key into your eye as he walks past your aisle seat, the approaching driver not mounting the pavement and breaking your spine, the government not secretly poisoning the water supply to supress your resistance, the view of your old flat not being blocked by the extension of the supermarket, the party dress you’re not wearing to clean the bathroom.



Georgia, why are you digging? What is it that you can’t let go? You clench your teeth to steel yourself against the cold, and the snow settles in your dark brown hair despite your feverish work.

The bodies are deeper than an afternoon’s effort. If you’re not careful you might join them.


I walk from the campus to the train station every evening and am reminded of my grandmother. The aromatic scent of curry leaves from the restaurants on London Road ignite my senses and, curiously, conjure images of chicken pieces in mushroom sauce. A series of associations devised by the memory of homemade chips, I theorise. A grave injustice is more thunderously sorrowful than the relief which follows in solitary outlines. Continue reading “Blessed”