Freedom Artist, Writer, Traveller
Writers are unusual beings, living on the borderline. They have their rituals.
I unwrap my laptop from its golden scarf and open it. I lay out my table, with tobacco, ashtray, fresh-made coffee from the fire. I tether my phone to my laptop, like a horse to its manger. I sit down and look out at the distant hills. Read more
I got hit on the nose by my painting.
The neighbour’s cat got in and I was trying to get her off the shelf, but she was putting up a fight. The painting was not fixed to the wall, and the image of the bird with its wings outstretched loomed over me, then swooped down and struck me in the face. Read more
