Several times while walking through Bath over the last few weeks, I've felt the skin on my face rippling like a flag in a stiff breeze. It has taken something of a mental effort to pull my expression back into something resembling human, but should I lose concentration I can feel it peeling back to reveal the whatever-it-is beneath ( Read more... )

The last few days have been something of a voyage. As if the (what I assume to be) Noro bugs stripped back the layers of experience plastered to the walls of my digestive system like wonky tree-rings and deposited me in the headspace of a sickly eight-year-old huddled under a blanket in dad's big chair in the kitchen, waiting for my four-hourly ( Read more... )

Terrible old cars! Interesting interpretations of the Highway Code! A Series I! No one-way systems! Polio! Fascism!

It seems I'm quite good at miniature golf. There's a trophy to prove it and everything.

It'll be tasselled loafers next, just you wait.

"Swift tincture at the nineteenth, old chap?"
"Don't mind if I do."

Some years ago, I was rather put out to discover that rather than being about an international assassin with a glamorous companion, 'The hitman and her' featured that well-known Deltic collector Pete Waterman playing grim disco at lurching proles ( Read more... )