The road spilled out before me, the way forward hidden between twists and turns.
Aged 98, she was getting tired of, as she said, ‘One more day of eating and sleeping!’
When Ruby hit her bass vibrato, glasses and cups rumbled on the shelf.
In a forest village in Finland on a month-long writing residency, I wandered into a bar with a strange vibe and staring men.
It was only when I listened back to my song that I realised what it was about.
You’re on the staircase, Kylie, summoning a confessional poem...
I sat before the drum kit and just marveled, before playing along to my Blondie 7-inch single Denis as loud as my record player could go.
I blink - and the Badloves disappear. Instead, on the stage, I see a ghost. Not Elvis, no. But a King nonetheless. Heath King.
The guest-house proprietors were an odd, mismatched couple, in their fifties, I’d guess – he, short, understated, a little creepy; she, a tall matronly type, usually sporting a well-practised smile.
Baldy wished Steve a happy birthday and opened the door of Steve's birthday present, the Chrysler Valiant Baldy had just stolen.