writing – Page 4 – EXCUSES AND HALF TRUTHS

The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 21

Rain. Finally. Thank all the heavens. The introduction of a hosepipe ban, one focussed cruelly on a single Caversham postcode—ours—usually heralds wetter weather. But the grumbles of thunder and dramatic skyscapes didn’t seem to give out like they promised. Until Thursday, when over the course of a half hour during drinks-o’clock the lights dimmed and the atmosphere thickened to the texture of a damp sponge. The deluge, when it came, was powerful enough to bounce off the stones.

Now, everything feels fresh and green again. There’s a mackerel sky up there this morning, and the light is limpid and gold. Coming off a week when I deliberately did very little to reset my poor brain, the rain felt like a signal and a kind of blessing. Things can and will be crappy, but nothing lasts forever. Patience and fortitude will finally bring the rain to your garden.

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

Super-Fantastic

It’s easy to lose faith. As a fan, reader and outspoken advocate for the medium of comics, it can be a struggle to argue your corner when folks will only see the worst parts of your favourite things. Worse, when they confuse the medium with the genre and offer up their gotchas based on prejudice, misinformation or plain ignorance.

The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 20

It has been another—entertaining week, with existential fear for the future mangled up with some really rather nice moments. I’d elaborate but to be frank it’s probably best to put the whole thing in my rear-view mirror and move on.

I’m writing this on the train to That London for tomorrow’s Diamond League athletics meet at the London Stadium. I’ve booked next week off (pal Ryan sweetly called it a half-term break, which seems about right) and have fun things planned, including two trips to the cinema, a big family birthday and C and I’s 31st weddiversary. Time doth fly—doesn’t seem like more than a couple of months since the last one. The lesson for this week: look ahead and don’t stress about the things you can’t control.

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

The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 19

It feels to me that any period of hot weather lasting more than a couple of days invites comparisons to the summer of 1976—six weeks of unbroken sunshine, leading to drought so bad that domestic water supplies were restricted and, in some places, people were forced to rely on public standpipes. I was nine, and remember little of the obvious problems. It just seemed like a nice time to hang out in trees and eat ice lollies.

The point about 1976 was how unusual it was, especially for us Brits who see any two-day stretch of sunshine as manna from heaven. That’s already changing. Records for dry and wet weather are broken every year. I hope we don’t see another 1976, but I can’t say I’d be surprised by a summer where we have to queue in the streets with buckets for the morning cup of tea.

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

The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 18

A week full of drama and astonishing changes in fortune, none of which I can sensibly talk about in a public-facing forum. That sounds like a big fat tease, I know, and I hesitate to even mention it. But at least I’m entering the weekend in a slightly more stable frame of mind than on Monday night. The garden, as ever, remains a place to regain perspective and get grounded. I pulled a handful of gherkins from the plants this week, and the squashes we planted last Saturday are already shouldering up out of the bed. Now those are events I’m happy to celebrate loudly.

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

The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 17

We’ve finally hit a point in the garden where most of the heavy work is done and we can relax into the space a little. We’ve spent an awful lot of time, energy and yes, money, to get here. I shudder to think how much we’ve coughed up just for compost. But it’s worth every penny and bead of sweat to sit out at the end of a hard day in the sunshine, watching bees and butterflies hover and swoop, jackdaws and blue tits hop around the feeders while red kites make bombing runs overhead. The garden kept us sane over lockdown. Now, in an ever more lunatic world, it’s a truly safe space.

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

Fire in The Hills

I believe that human ingenuity is only matched by the equally human capacity for cruelty. Think about what we have achieved over the millennia—the great works, the stunning, almost incomprehensible technological leaps. Then think about how they were achieved, and the terrible choices we made to enable that progress.

Tin Crown In A Paper Bag

I’m still working on a piece about our time in Shropshire—you should see that next week. It’s proving a little more difficult to get a grip on, but I think I’ve finally figured out the structure and key points. Hopefully it’ll be worth the wait.

Instead, let me offer up a piece of original short fiction. Reading Writers celebrated the results of our Spring Competition this week. Judged by author Gill Thompson, the theme was A Terrible Loss. Clearly the notion resonated, as we had the biggest ever response to a competition prompt. My entry, in a stunning reversal of fortunes from last year when I won both writing competitions, did not place—which I’m relieved about. It’s a take on a famous tragic hero of literature. See if you can figure out who I’m lovingly parodying.

The Swipe Volume 3 Chapter 16

We’ve been on us holidays. Still unpacking, both mentally and physically. There will be more about the whole experience next week in a diversion from the norm. But today here’s your expected slumgullion of goods and services.

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

Too High, Too Far, Too Soon

It starts with a fanfare. A single trumpet, blowing high and wild, glimmers of sunlight jabbing holes in a stormy sky. Behind it, guitars, not so much strummed as hammered, wire and wood pushed to their limits. The chording is almost Spanish, calling up the drama of a spaghetti Western, a Morricone showdown. Two gunmen, hands crooked over their holsters, waiting for the first toll of high noon. A honky-tonk piano slides into the mix, maybe from the saloon where an argument over cards or a girl started, to finish the matter at hand in a crack of gunfire, of blood in the dust.

It builds, it builds, you can smell the tension, the tremble in the trigger fingers, sweat easing out from the band of the stetson. One last howl from the trumpet, a single pure high note holding for that second longer than it should and then and then and then

BANG. The drums, finally, a cannonade, regiments of worn boot heels marching in lockstep across a windblasted mountain range. More guitars, electric now, overdriven, snarling like predators running down their prey. And a voice, sneering, insouciant, a challenge, a dare.

‘So here we are in a special place

What are you gonna do here?

Now we stand in a special place

What will you do here?

What show of soul

are we gonna get from you?

It could be Deliverance

Or History

Under these skies so blue

Something true…’

Now that’s how you start an album.