EXCUSES AND HALF TRUTHS

The Swipe Volume 4 Chapter 5

C and I rejoined our local library. It took five minutes, was all done online and feels like a sensible thing to do. I grew up in libraries, pretty much. They were where my love of SF and fantasy was kindled and fuelled, the need to read which has helped define my inner life given a sanctuary and launchpad. Reading will be getting a swanky new library this year as part of a big overhaul of our civic centre, so it felt like a good time to show a bit of support. Apps like Libby and CloudLibrary mean you can fill your boots with magazines and all the e-reading your little heart desires without even leaving the house. And all, let me stress, for free. Libraries are an essential public resource which deserve to be venerated, celebrated and above all, used. Snag yourself a card today. You’ll be glad you did.

Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.

The Swipe Volume 4 Chapter 4

Apparently I have a doppelgänger. Two separate pals on two separate occasions have sworn, hand on heart, that they have seen a fella with not just my physical appearance but gait and stance striding around the mean streets of Reading. Who is this man? Does he have friends who tell him of the peculiar, haunted-looking stranger with his face scurrying about Dingtown? Are we destined to meet in the future? When we do, will that crack the surface of reality? Whoever you are, mysterious twin, if by some happenstance you come across this message, hit me up and we’ll have a beer together.

Please don’t be a teetotaler. That would be a version of me I wouldn’t want to meet.

Wherever you are, whenever you are, whoever you are, welcome to The Swipe.

The Swipe Volume 4 Chapter 3

I’m under both the clock and the gun a bit this week, so let’s jump straight into the serious business. Enjoy links on dangerous caramel, drone metal, skronky jazz and a Disney movie you really need to rewatch.

Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.

Pockets

Cover image by beasturnchen on Pixabay

I have a little ritual I have to enact before I leave the house. A simpler version of the old Catholic mnemonic — spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch. This one ensures I have the holy trinity of items on me, confirmed with three swift pats to the body. Phone, wallet, keys. Tap tap tap. There. Now I can unseal the airlock and venture into the world, knowing I have everything about my person I need to manage my affairs.

I can feel some of you rolling your eyes at this, and you’re absolutely right to do so. As I swan out of Swipe Towers, I am powered on my merry, oblivious way by a huge waft of male privilege. I can travel light and easy, unencumbered by bags or slings or totes. For I am a man, and I wear clothes with functioning pockets.

The Swipe Volume 4 Chapter 2

Hands up who had ‘actual flippin’ blizzard, ICE murder in Minnesota and a potential annexation of Greenland’ on their scorecards for the first week of 2026. The soap opera of life in the second quarter of the 21st century doesn’t look to be any less balls-out crazy than the last. Honestly, if half of this went into a science fiction novel written in the late 70s, you’d accuse the author of hoarding all the good drugs for themselves.

If I switch my feeds away from the news, this last five days has not been too brain-twisting. The workload has been gentle but steady. I’ve been cooking up a storm, to C’s evident delight, and although little actual writing has been done (apart from the foolishness below, of course), ideas are percolating. A story which brewed up in November now has an ending which, although still absurdly violent, is no longer quite as bleak, nihilist or cannibalistic. Just in case you had any doubts as to my state of mind over the last two months of the year…

Aaanyway. Come get your lovely links and let’s huddle up against the storm together.

Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.

The Swipe Volume 4 Chapter 1

So here we are again. The start of a new year—depending of course on your calendar of choice. Yet again we were lured past midnight on New Year’s Eve by the promise of big fireworks (Caversham, you did not disappoint. House Beast Millie slept through the lot) and actual house guests. Thai takeaway and half a bottle of Kraken is a good way to put 2025 in the rear-view mirror.

Inevitably, even though I know the whole situation is a social and political construct loosely hanging onto seasonal cycles and I really should be doing this on the Winter Solstice, I have an an itch to clean up and get ready for the next twelve-month of challenges. Give Harvette a clean and fettle after our Kentish adventure, de-Christmas the house and begin work on the longer-term plans for C’s lady-shed at the bottom of the garden, the ongoing trash-heap in the garage and improvements to the office.

Who knows, I might even try to squeeze some writing in there somewhere.

We go again. Let’s have it.

Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you plan to spend 2026, welcome to The Swipe.

The Three Parts Of Christmas

It all happens so quickly. One minute you’re rushing around and over-thinking, the panic rising like a bubble of acidic bile, convincing yourself that you haven’t done enough, it’ll never be enough, you’ve fumbled it this time sunshine, this is the end, they’ll know what you really are, you’ll be found out and all you can do is pack what you can carry and run.

You know, the usual normal Christmas feelings.

The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 36

The first week of my sixtieth year on the planet did not go as planned. A stack of first world problems—car trouble, boiler issues, post-menopausal nausea (not me)—managed to swerve life at Swipe Towers properly off-axis. The cumulative effect of these little niggles kicked any hint of Christmas joy into the bin.

Yesterday, things began to improve. We now have hot water and warm radiators again. Our beautiful Harvette returns to us from car hospital on Monday, sporting two new doors and a festive glow up. We have been, as my pal Sensei Paul put it, in an upside-down place, unfamiliar and un-nerving. Now, our home is returning to normal. We are nearly at the point where we can look ahead and enjoy the run up to X-Day—

—ah crap, I’ve still got cards to write and presents to wrap.

Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.

A Little Christmas Story

Today is my birthday. I am off gallivanting in the bright lights of the big town. As such, Swipery will be paused for this week. Instead, allow me to regale you with a short story for Christmas, written for the Reading Writers Secret Santa Challenge. We were offered a prompt, a ~~victim~~ recipient and given five hundred words to come up with a little treat. Here’s mine, a tale of hubris, entitlement, social media and revenge. Hope you enjoy, and I’ll see you next Saturday for the Santastic Swipe Special.

The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 35

This time of year is peak activity for one of my more annoying habits — causing injury to the motor vehicle I am allegedly in control of. No-one else is involved. The only person at risk is me, the only thing at risk is my dignity.

Six years ago, I half-tore the front bumper off our long-suffering Note, necessitating an panicky appointment with our local body shop. The work was finished the evening before we were travelling up to Staffordshire for a big family Christmas.

This week two years ago I gently backed the same Note into a sticky-out bit of I-beam supporting an air-conditioning unit at work. The back windscreen imploded with a gentle pop. Glass everywhere.

On Monday, while pulling into our front drive I misjudged the angle of approach and swerved Harvette into a tree, cratering a divot into the join between the front and passenger-side doors. Cosmetic damage, but an insurance claim and a courtesy car nevertheless. Wails of despair from me, assurances from C that this stuff happens. Like I’m not going to blame myself brutally and at length for my shortcomings.

Why do I do this in December? I think the weeks leading up to my birthday are more discombobulating than usual. As another year ticks off my allowance, I become a little sadder, a little more distracted. Once I get past the mid-point of the month I settle down and cheer up, but in general I am a sulky little pain in the butt around now.

Tis the season, jingle trauma, falalalala boo yuk.

Best not ask for a lift from me until after Christmas. I’ll let C do the driving until then.

Wherever you are, whenever you are, however you are, welcome to The Swipe.