I noticed something odd when I looked in my bathroom mirror this morning. Somewhat disturbingly, the odd thing seemed to be part of my face. But it did provide the answer to a mystery that has bothered me all week.
It began a few days ago. I thought I was alone in my flat one morning, but then I heard a noise in the bedroom. I went to investigate, fully prepared to tackle a mouse, a cat, or a burglar – or shriek and flee if it proved to be a particularly noisy spider – but what I wasn’t prepared for was a very small giant.
Yep. There was a giant in my flat. A very small one.
After a moment of bewilderment I did what anybody would in such a situation – chased it out with a broom – but it’s presence did concern me a little, especially when, later that night, I encountered a second giant.
This one was even bigger than the first giant (but still very small), and was carrying a sheep under its arm. Again I got my broom and chased it out, but I started to worry.
My last story was in September?! Eek. Sorry. I haven’t abandoned this blog, I promise. In fact, quite the opposite – I check it every day to see if I have made a new post. But mostly I haven’t.
At the moment I have no internet access in my flat, which is one excuse I might give if I weren’t about to tell you in this sentence that the real reasons are mostly because I am lazy and/or doing other things. So at this moment I am sitting with a coffee in the café in which I work, plainly not doing café -related work, consuming the wi-fi bandwidth almost as greedily as I am consuming my coffee – which is to say that I hadn’t thought this metaphor through before I started it.
I was lying in bed the other night, working out exactly how I would melt the West Antarctic Ice Sheet to drown the low-lying areas of the world if I were a supervillain, when my musings were interrupted by a bong.
By this, I don’t mean that an oversized piece of drug paraphernalia flew through my window on smokey wings of purple haze and struck me on the head, saving coast-dwellers around the globe from getting their socks wet – but that something, somewhere, went bong.
I started this blog a year and a day ago.
In honour of this – and in anticipation of a deeper writing-related post on the horizon, I’ve dug up an old short story for you – the first I’ve posted here. Enjoy.
Recently I went with some friends to a lovely country pub, to eat fish and chips on a Friday night, while the beautiful British summer howled against the window panes and soaked up the legs of my trousers.
They were some of the best fish and chips I’ve had. The fish was a giant slab of cod that clearly came from the body-building champion of the cod world. It was delightfully battered and tasty, and the chips were huge and chunky, salted and vinegared – the kind of chips seagulls have wet-dreams about, not those pathetic skinny things people (yes, Americans, I’m talking to you) call fries.
I like cats, but my affection for these aloof felines sometimes comes with negative consequences – and therefore I don’t always like that affection.
For instance, as much as I love getting cat on my face, my immune system doesn’t. It makes my skin turn red and bumpy. I start to wheeze and sneeze. I scratch my neck. And if I get cat in my eyes – either directly or via my fingertips – they turn red, water, and itch like a motherfucker.
But I’ve recently realised another disadvantage of liking cats: