Monday, 31 August 2010
After nearly a couple of hours flying over the massive Spanish interior which contains, at least to the uninitiated, an unexpected amount of streams, rivers and lakes, we landed in Malaga at 6.20 in the evening. The usual pain of de-pressurisation on the run in to landing promised me acute deafness and general discomfort. I find this pain and its lengthy ear-popping easing, generally stays with me for about the next 36 hours. But ask my wife, Marion, I don’t like to moan.

We both know from an Easter holiday last year, that a service `A` bus from the aeropuerto to the Centro Ciudad would pass close by the estacion del tren, our next stop. OK, I’ve established my Spanish credentials hacked from the coal face of a 30 week English night school class right there, so I won’t bore you anymore with that. Needless to say some students still refer to me as Mr 100%, my wife says not all of them fondly though.

After a trip through the industrialised Malagan hinterland past the San Miguel brewery and countless other similar units, the bus dropped us across the road from the railway station. Just like other city centre rail stations Estacion de Maria Zambrana is a hive of shops and has a hotel, belonging to the Barcelo group. The Costa has a certain style of architecture that words alone simply cannot convey. If you’ve been there, you’ll know what I mean. The Barcelo itself has a unique interior that is similarly difficult to translate, but I’m a trier, so here goes. Rooms are built in square pods placed within an empty space on each floor.

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I wrote this short story when I got a homework request for something biographical. It was inspired by a BBC 2 Timewatch programme I watched about Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow.

Admittedly both were killers, but anyone’s death, especially in violent circumstances, is poignant, so I tried to make this an emotive piece. If you like it, or you don’t, why not make a comment?

Guess who asked us to write a piece about Love?

This poem…was inspired by a photograph of a building awning I saw in September 2007, in Ronda, Southern Spain. The huge photo depicted some famous local bullfighters. I was struck by the nobility and poise of the men in the picture, and decided to find out more. The Ronda Tourist Board told me the men were Cayetano, Antonio and Juan Ordonez. Antonio was the most famous of the three men. He was a friend of Ernest Hemingway, and inspiration for Papa’s book The Dangerous Summer. The dynasty continues into the present day, with Francisco Rivera Ordonez , and his younger brother, Cayetano Ordonez still risking their lives in the bullrings of Spain, for fame and fortune.

Ash crisis over? Sadly it looks likely, as confirmation of our homeward flight comes through from the airline. An eruption story update now available!

Yes I’m still on holiday, and if you dare, you can read all about it here…

I have just discovered that all the comments I had received from some kind people have totally disappeared. I’m very vexed, and am investigating ways of trying to get them back! Please don’t think I got tired of reading them, and deleted them. Far from it. Oh, oh babies, I want you back!

We recently spent some time up at Hadrian’s Wall taking part in the illumination, commemorating the 1600th anniversary since the Romans left Britain. I’ve written a piece about it and it’s here…

Sometime ago I mentioned a story called “The Dean of Gibraltar” I’d hoped to put on the site. I’ve finally finished it! It’s a gentle story, not a blockbuster. Now I just have to write the other 9 for the book of short stories… Here’s the first section. Further installments are available on request. I hope you enjoy this.

I recently added a new piece I wrote called An Introduction to the Rock. It’s a light-hearted look at somewhere I have a lot of affection for and you can find it here… Why not make a comment?

I’ve just added a new story, “In The Machine”. It’s a bit of a chiller, and you can find it here. I’m also, slowly, working on the first of some short stories I want to write about Gibraltar, where I worked for six months in 2008 – 2009. I hope to put “The Dean of Gibraltar” up on-site soon. So keep checking back …

This was my entry for a recent romantic summer story competition that our tutor suggested we enter for experience. Let me know if you like it… or if you don’t! I welcome any feedback. Thanks.

Some of my friends in Gibraltar noticed the site was down. I’m happy to report it’s back online again.  Thanks Roy and Sylvie!

Spoon

When I dig down

deep, deep into the honey

pot with my familiar silver spoon this

golden apian life sucks me under, and I am gilded

once more, in an amber arc, above perfect, pale

waxen cells, mid shafts of mhyrric light, my wings swing

back and forth in a mesmerising slow beat ,while below

beneath the curve of my bronzy back, a queen passes

the hours in high regal splendour as I fan her gently

in the treacly summer heat, and tempt her with

royal  jelly, thick as molasses, cool dew

to drink mined at dawn from a million

vivid blooms, until she swells

swarming with massive

fecund strength

and beats down

walls to join

me high on

pulsing

waggle

dancing

air

As part of an exercise in characterisation, the men in my class were asked to write a piece about a woman, and the ladies were to write about a man. Examples given to us were from Alan Bennett’s “A Chip In the Sugar”. I haven’t read the book, but to my knowledge, this lady never lived ‘oop North’…

Recently in my creative writing class we carried out an exercise, adding to the beginning or end of a fragment of text we’d been given by our tutor. I was excited by the start of the story and piggybacked my text on to it.

How can it be that I can snuggle down
And be cauterised, then anaesthetised,
By two minute, idiotic, sales pitches
And situations turning comi to tragi?
All this only a matinee to the Main Event,
The Pay-Per-View war on Reality TV…
On the 47 inch plasma screen the sand
Burns in brown and yellow, orange then red.
In dayglo bibs, Essex boys douse the flames,
“Hell, that Harrier’ll never jump again!”
Inside, the bleached blond skeleton of the boy
Whose skin, desert winds will no more caress.
He’ll never push away the joystick
In Afghan skies and fly home, over Iran…