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”



In Mother Tongue Bill Bryson tells us that if we harbour an urge to look through the windows of the homes we pass, there is a word for the condition: crytoscopophilia. Despite these assurances, Microsoft Word still underlines it in red. Continue reading “Velleity”


She watched the news over breakfast. Overnight there had been movement over the southern continents which had led to threats of action. It was political. Images of the three leaders appeared briefly, and she could see her reflection where their dark suits spanned the screen. The steadiness of her hands reflected apathy more than resolve. She noticed she still needed to get dressed. Continue reading “Grow”