Did you do the dishes.
Did you pay the rent.
Did you go to work.
Forgot. But remembered your face and voice.
Did you get some milk.
Did you put out the bin.
Did you go to the bank.
Forgot. But remembered your face and voice.
Did you pay the telephone bill.
Did you iron your good white shirt.
Did you remember anything at all.
Just the things I'll never forget.


While his brother enjoyed the fame and celebrity of becoming one of the world's best known rap artists, young Beef Cube preferred his life as a local chef.

Room at the Back

It was a problem the local council transport commission hadn't envisaged.
Forms had been completed, checked and stamped with the official seal.
The new fleet of twenty seven single decker buses approved and ordered.
Pick up day arrived and a delegation travelled to bus HQ for the key handing over ceremony.
1.7 million dollars, the total cost.
The deal abandoned after discovering the manufacturer would only accept exact change.

Cuba Unscheduled

It was 1979 and we were hijacked. On a flight from Miami to, what turned out to be, Cuba. Not Havana (because let’s face it, who wants to be in Havana in July) but Varadero. A place I had never heard of before, but in July I can think of no where nicer. Except maybe Venice. But definitely not Havana.
The pilot announced his apologies “On behalf of Eastern Airlines” for the diversion and hoped it wouldn’t ruin the in-flight experience for us as the cabin crew proceeded to placate us with an endless supply of free macadamia nuts and cola, heretofore available only to First and Business passengers in the Boeing 727. I presumed they were entering into the spirit of the occasion and embracing our hijacker’s socialist ideals.
As for the persons responsible for this about turn in our fortunes, not a sight could be seen.   
Nothing changed inside the cabin – we sat in the same seats, the water below us remained the same azure blue as before and the three rear mounted engines purred like a kitten might if it were hurtling ninety seven human beings through the sky.
Silence and the occasional yell of ‘snap’ from the rear of the cabin as a rowdy group partook in a game of cards. That will be knocked on the head when we reach land, no mistake senor comrade.
Thoughts of endless cigars and Hemingway workshops fill our heads as the left wing banked gently and pressure built in the ears. Either we were descending or had all developed a sudden allergic reaction to vast quantities of salted macadamia nuts consumed over a short period of time. Well, they were free and delicious to boot – who could blame the madness in our time of need. Plus they came in such tiny packets it was hard to tell how many you had actually eaten.
Touchdown. A bevy of nothing surrounded the taxi-ing aircraft – not even a ‘Bienvenidos a Cuba’ from the flight deck.  First impressions are lasting and quite frankly the hijackers’ left a lot to be desired. What was the local time and temperature, where would one go for connecting to onward destinations? Car hire, local hotels and had our luggage been checked all the way through? Nothing.
So much for the Latin passion for life.
We vowed there and then to never fly with that airline again.
Although, it had to be admitted, their nonstop service to Varadero in July was quite handy.

Home Babies

Age four.
On the floor.
Dad long gone.
Mum no more.
On the floor.
Example to all.
Old and small.
This is how it looks
This is the result
Age four, put on the floor.
Cloaks swish by, the smell of lack.
Dressed in black, shoes that clack, eyes that bore.
On the floor.
Don’t get up, stay right there.
Don’t dare.
Glares and snares, looks that hate
Unable to relate.
Expecting nothing more
“He smells” becomes the bait.
Punishment for shame
Playtime denied, who cried?
Quiet while the others receive what’s truly theirs.
And could have been for you
But no one said their prayers
For you. 
On the floor
Aged four.
Now gone.
Eight hundred more.

Right then...

The writing coach said to clear your mind, hold the pen and just "take it for a walk".
Don't think about it, just put pen to paper and write words.
Once you start, keep going. It's therapeutic.
Peter anxiously set forth, unsure how this would work but also eager to discover what his silent self was thinking.
The nib gently touched  page.
Unsure how it started, Peter smiled; excited, liberated.
Slowly at first a single letter, another, then...a word.
A sentence.
How long did it take? He couldn't say...a minute, an hour?
Exhausted and sated, he looked at the inner self revealed through words: "Poo sometimes smells nicer on the carpet".
"Well" said the writing coach "that's fucked up".


From the Latin words 'Mori' and 'Gage'. 
Literally meaning ' 'Death Pledge'.

The new shop-front advertising campaign started to reveal the bank's intrinsically dark nature.

I Am

I am not gone.
I have not left.
I am still here.
In the breeze that brushes your hair. I am.
In the warmth that bathes your skin. I am.
In the laughter of a little child. I am.
I am not gone.
I have not left.
I am still here.
In the part of you I touched.
In the memory of a smile.
In the comfort of a sense.
I am.
In the sound of a voice.
In the rhythm of a song.
In the joy of a dance.
I am.
In the tears that you cry.
In the anger that you feel.
In the love that you knew.
I am.
I am not gone.
I have not left.
I am still here.
When you need me there. I am.
When you think my name. I am.
When you move along. I am.
I am the one who supports you.
Until the day arrives when you are.
Then, I was.
And you forever will be.