Tag Archives: Stories

Beaten to the Punch

Today is a good day for writing. The sun is streaming in through the back windows, across the open expanse of the kitchen and into the front-room. It makes my little cosy world feel spacious and clean. Fresh. A state that belies its true nature. The discarded plates can go unnoticed, the strewn flotsam of rubbish can wait till tomorrow, the strata of filth and grime is something which can be avoided. I’m drinking a big cup of organic white tea (middle-class represent!) out of a big, fat, pint mug. Times like these are one of only two times I can really write, the other being the grey place where afternoon and evening blur together. There is always however a problem with writing, the ever struggling battle for originality, the quest to produce something new and exciting. Naturally this isn’t as easy as it sounds.

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The Dragonborn Comes…

This morning was the first day of the year where the cold really started to bite, and it chose to bite hard. The walk home from work was one of those times where you cannot keep your hands uncovered or out of your pockets for more than a minute before they start to burn with the lancing white fire that is the teeth of cold and thousands of nerve endings screaming with horror at its coming. I had a pair of gloves so I was quite fine and content, for they are big warm gloves made from the skin of a mighty beast. By that of course mean, a cow; if anyone takes issue with a cow being described as mighty, just remember that mighty is defined as “possessing great and impressive power or strength”, something which becomes all too apparent if one is charging angrily towards you. We so often forget how big cows really are. Of course the leather could have been from a pig, then I’d have to agree; pigs are proper shit. My meanderings aside, the weather seemed somehow appropriate for the topic of this week’s blog. For today I talk about the cold and unforgiving realm that is Skyrim. Continue reading

Of Swords and Legends

My family has its fair share of tales and stories. On my mother’s side there’s the story of one of my ancestors getting the maid up the duff and subsequently being forced to marry her. And there’s the great-great-great-great-uncle who left his illegitimate daughter enough money to buy ten horses. Best of all there’s just the simple fact that I had a great-great-uncle called Septimus, who was a tramp. On my Dad’s side there’s the tale of my Granddad surviving the bombing of the King David Hotel in 1947 thanks to the need to go to the lavatory. And how my Great-Granddad fled to Canada, leaving his wife and son behind for reasons that, to this day, we’re still not entirely sure about. There’s also the delightful fact that my Great-great-granddad (a veteran of the Boer War) had regimental tattoos on his shins, for the delightful purpose of “making it easier to identify the body.” Somewhere we’ve even got the bullet he used when he was forced to kill his horse before his journey back to Britain. Continue reading