I’ve been quiet on the blog front. Studying for my MA, breaking my elbow, and then within the classic writer’s rule of three, I had little spare time and energy to blog. However, I recently bought two beautiful notebooks in TK Maxx (one with Chinese artwork and the other a hare) to encourage me to journal again. I decided that one was to be notes on the novel I’m currently writing, and the other, a travel journal. I used to do the latter in my 20s and 30s, but somewhere in the business of life I fell out of love with a handwritten record of any holiday or event, leaving my photos in the Google ether to tell a story instead. I’d gone to TK Maxx with the intention to buy photo frames, and after circling the shelves numerous times, I saw a rack of notebooks inspired by British artists, instead. Distracted, I ended up picking two for me, and one for my daughter. And then I chose two photo frames. I queued up at the cash tills to be served by a worker who had seen me frittering around the p
The run-up to Christmas is always a time of reflection for me. How the year has gone, what I’ve got to look forward to over the coming month, but also fondly remembering those we used to celebrate with. The long dark nights, log fires, and a steaming cup of tea often inspire me to write ghost stories about the return of the ones we love. I hope this short story gets you in the spirit. The Christmas Habitué It was Christmas Eve and Florence heard a gentle click of the front door and then the stamp of snowy boots. ‘Derek, that you?’ she said. ‘Hello Ma!’ he said, picture framed by the doorway in his army uniform which had been pressed to an inch of his life, ‘could murder a cuppa!’ As he rubbed his ashen hands above the red coals of the fire, she shuffled to the kitchen in a pair of oversized green woollen socks. Returning with a teapot for two, he was gone; just like every Christmas. She smiled and then cried, just like she always did. (This story was first published by Friday Flash Fic