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An artifact has washed up, knocking, on my shore. But why my shore?
There are more things in heaven and earth, but rarely are they this direct or comprehensible in their methods. 2. I hardly read Biba Morel’s legal disclaimer, but if I had paid more attention I would have noted the words: council raid, booby traps, ingenious mechanisms, police caution. 3. Quick reflexes and heavy cookware will turn the tide in all but the most desperate situations.
as a geologist or a holistic private detective. Or even a life that combined both, allowing her to solve gemstone-related misdemeanors mindfully.
“You see why it’s better not to have children?” she says. “For one day you will be worth more to them dead than alive.”
I’m barefoot and wearing, of all things, a voluminous white Victorian nightie, which is just asking for trouble.
like David turning up at Goliath’s with rubber gloves and a risk assessment and wondering where the hell to aim.
Like Lassie but with more stealth and less barking.
Why wouldn’t the dead be found roaming in supermarkets? Death, like life, is probably quite routine. Not unpleasant, just a bit dreary, the best any of us can hope for.
They are like sunlit happy scenes moments before a disaster.
Memory is like a wayward dog. Sometimes it drops the ball and sometimes it brings it, and sometimes it doesn’t bring a ball at all; it brings a shoe.
Madame Sabine says: If you meet a squinting woman be sure to give her the time of day lest MISFORTUNE befall you.
Two downcast women in a maisonette with a bottle of krupnik.”
Sure what would I be doing inviting people round to detest me in person on my birthday?”
I stare at her: all my fictions are coming true.
