Friday, 5 December 2014


Distracted by iridescent bubbles as they rise on a soft breeze, you chased these appealing spheres and tried to catch one. Hands came together and missed the bubble and each other. Fingers splayed wide you stared at the empty palms of your hands. Astonished you look to me as if to ask where did it go?

When you were newborn I checked your fingers, delicate tiny tendrils with talons as sharp as an eagles’ claws. I tried to wrap them in soft cotton mittens tying the silk ribbons as tight as I dare round each fragile wrist. That turned out to be one futile exercise as you waved your fists and wriggled those fingers free. Scars, fine spider thin strands decorated your soft velvet skin. Tiny filaments of red lacerations.

Brushing my hair was a game you enjoyed immensely. Standing behind me on the sofa, you would aim the brush. In your hands my wooden hairbrush was your preferred weapon of destruction as its wooden side cracked my skull. My hair teased and scrubbed until it became a cobbed mass of mayhem.

The performance involved in blowing your nose always bought a smile to my face. Rude noises. Huffs and puffs. Tissues smooshed up. to be aimed then lobbed at the bin. Invariably you’d direct this squished missile and not notice you had missed the intended target. Discarded the remnants lay strewn across my kitchen floor for me to tidy later whilst the bogey still hung, dangling from the tip of your nose.

I spent hours on my knees assisting you. ‘Left over right and right over left.’ Spaghetti string laces that were too fiddly for your uncoordinated fingers and you would lose interest after a couple of attempts, to race off with those unsecure laces trailing in your wake. I would watch ever vigilant in case you fell.

The first day at nursery school as we entered the room hand in hand and you spied the sandpit. Undeterred you made a direct approach, picked up a spade and as I knelt beside you, (to reassure myself) you turned, ‘Go shopping,’ and a balled up fist pushed me off balance.

I never saw you wipe away tears of frustration with the back of your hand, you would stand there with a lost look in your eye and let the big fat tear drops splash on the ground. And then one day, when a rude man spooked me, you thrust your hand in mine and shouted: ‘Race you home.’ We ran as fast as your legs would allow, holding each other fast.

Your skin’s fine and brittle like tissue packing paper, nothing like mine and there’s a coolness and an oldness to these small hands that worries me but you seem not to notice or care. As the years passed you grew and the day you tugged your hand free from mine at the pelican crossing, ‘I can cross the road on my own.’ Left me reeling.

Thursday, 4 December 2014

My Lindor moment


30 minutes she said
building a snowman
for two Lindor balls
her favourites
that’d be worth it
surely if nobody saw
then I could have two more.

one is never enough
don’t you find?
they soothe my stress
as I hear that hard outer shell crack
to reveal a
buttery texture
my tongue salivates
irresistible temptation.
Do you dream of chocolate?

can you hear the red wrapper teasing you?
as it crackles with its
twist to open action
do you split the shell?
or slide it whole…
your tongue
and wait?
For this chocolate porn to melt

the pleasure contained within
is mouth-wateringly good
over-riding all common sense
compelling you
to eat another
but stop!
How many points is it worth?

delicious, velvety, smooth, it may be the most seductive pleasure
a mouthful of happiness
is a lifetime on my hips!
it’s not that awesome
at two pro-points per ball
but my weight loss is!

Wednesday, 3 December 2014


These hands that touch me… which have the strength to bend copper pipe at a forty five degree angle, yet gentle enough to hold our daughters tiny fingers and guide her faltering steps across the polished beechwood floor.

Un-tanned, broad spans of palms act as shovels to scoop up Lego bricks, discarded by our son. Large bright coloured bricks that earlier in the day you lay on the floor to build, with care into towers. Only to have them smashed by a single swipe of his hand and as you mockingly complain, ‘Oh no!’ Peels of laughter ring out as he squeals with glee, ‘Again, again.’

You dislike public displays of affection they’re not your style. Surrounded by ice cream sundaes and pink roses that same hand trembled as you dipped to one knee to propose. Just for a laugh those nimble fingers snapped the engagement ring box shut, with such a crack I jumped off my seat, before I had time to say yes.

At our engagement party we were fooling about, you picked up the sherry trifle, turned it upside down and span the glass bowl round my head. The room erupted; our guests couldn’t contain their laughter as dribs of jelly and drabs of custard slopped down my arms. Afterwards you teased out tinned pineapple chunks and cubed lumps of pear as you showered the mess from my hair.

When there’s a storm brewing and I resemble a small boat tied to a forgotten mooring, you stroke my arm. Your touch calms me, steadies my nerves. These dependable hands that hold me with adulation and after we’ve made love those same hands that hold our bull mastiff on a tethered lead for her morning walk round the village common.

If I’m nervous you place your hand, in the small of my back, guide me to safety. The same soft fingertips with trimmed nails that before you vacate our crumpled warm bed know how and where to plunder me with a lightness of touch which draws such sweet music. Unable to resist, my body twitches to your love tap, bringing forth moans of joy before I end with a big bang that ensnares me in ecstasy.

At the end of a tough day when my back aches your experienced fingers massage liniment to dislodge tight knots. This deep kneading action and pungent menthol odour, eases my tension. Your hands work their magic, as balm for my soul.

Once the children sleep, cradled in your arms I rest. The full length of our bodies touch, skin against skin, as your tenderness traces a never ending pattern across and down my bare back and after we talk through the days events, as I drift off to sleep you enfold your fingers through mine, wrapping each finger, one between the other you cup my hand in yours, and press our enclosed hand together, against your heart. These unwritten rules of your hands, these coded messages fill me with desire.


In the run up to Christmas I thought I’d share some of my writing.

Pieces I like whether for sentimental reasons or because I surprised myself after an exercise had been suggested at writing group.

‘Cherished’ was written after class. We had been focusing on ‘hands’ and this short story, a flight of fancy and not autobiographical…came to me. *Enjoy.*