Opinions appreciated please

I know what a cup is.

I know that it’s cylindrical in shape (It follows, therefore, that I know what a cylinder is (also a cube, a sphere, a torus, a tetrahedron, etc.)). I know that a cup is made from kiln-fired clay and usually has a ceramic glaze. With effort I can even remember some of the chemical constituents of the glaze from my college days, although I can’t actually remember the name or location of the college I attended. I know that a cup has a handle. One is able to drink from a cup. Obviously one is.

I know that Lee Harvey Oswald assassinated JKF in 1963, who was then murdered by Jack Ruby, who, himself, then died – I believe – of lung cancer.

If I concentrate I can name all of the planets: the two gas giants, the inferno that is Venus. I am also aware that Earth has an atmosphere composed of oxygen, nitrogen and argon. The boiling point of argon is -185.8˚C. I know these facts and lots of others. They are ingrained in my mind. Less esoterically, I know what a toothbrush is, which means, therefore, that I haven’t forgotten what teeth are. A comb. A car. I know what trousers are. I’m not a complete idiot.

What I don’t know, however, is who I am. How old I am. Whether I am married. If I have children. If I have brothers and sisters. Whether my parents are alive or dead. Whether I have a job (although I have an inkling that I must have, and that it is some way concerned with the creation of some kind of object. My mind is, therefore, not completely anaesthetised.

My senses are mainly intact, I think. With some effort I can smell: although the odours that surround me are unfamiliar. I can see: not completely see, just lights and pixilated shapes. Sometimes these shapes are moving; ghostly figures of indeterminate composition. I can also hear: muffled, indistinct sounds, like someone has hung a wet towel over a speaker, but sounds nevertheless. And I can feel pain. I can certainly feel pain.

If I try to move my head, for example – even the slightest of movement – I feel pain; pain that would force me to scream if only I were able to scream. Pain unimaginable in its scope, its magnitude. I experience similar pain when I try to move my arms, my legs, my shoulders, my hips; if I try to move anything. I am immersed in pain. Suffocating in pain. Trussed and bound like an animal in pain. The pain overwhelms me; it transports me to another place, another universe, another dimension.


I am lying in bed. I know what a bed is. Most of the time I am on my back. Less frequently I am lying on my side. Above me is a row of soft lights: four in total. A constellation of circular lights. Never moving, never changing. Sometimes there are voices.

Most of the time the voices are female in nature: whispering female voices, soft, gentle, unintelligible, comprised not of words but of muffled arpeggios. Occasionally I hear a man’s voice: deep and unconcerned.

This my life: no day and no night. No weeks. No months. No years. Just pain and more pain.


Latest watercolours

Haven’t posted in a while – been getting back to the writing. In the evenings I’ve been painting.

For what it’s worth, here they are:


New watercolour

Got a little distracted by the election and didn’t paint anything at all. Finally got back into it on Friday night. This took 6 ½ hours from start to finish. It’s Harry, my former clarinet teacher. 

Meanwhile, here’s a piece I wrote on the same day for the British Boxers website.  It’s about the upcoming Mayweather-McGregor fiasco. 

I’m not buying it and nor should you


I see you Theresa May

I see you Theresa May. I see your cold dead eyes, those prematurely aged windows to your bloodless soul. I see the way you stand, your body language, your awkward gait. Your back hunched over with the weight of the lies that you carry.

I hear you Theresa May. I hear the words that leave your lips but tell us nothing. The barely concealed tremble, the disdain in your voice when you lecture one of the desperate about the missing ‘money tree’; the money tree that isn’t there for the nurses forced to feed from food banks. The money tree that mysteriously reappears when it comes to you and your own. They get one percent of nothing. You get ten percent of everything.I watch you Theresa May. I watch as you hold the hand of a monster and a monster holds the hand of you. Two monsters together. A match made in hell. I watch you say nothing as he sets the world on fire and condemns our children and their children to eternal misery. But then that wouldn’t concern you would it? Your frozen soul has no idea of what it is like to bring a child into the world; of the love that is sure to overwhelm you. Nothing so prosaic as children to suck on your withered teats, Theresa May, not when the intoxicating scent of power fills your head.

I grimace. I groan. I hold my head in my hands and want to cry. I see you sitting together on that couch. You and him. Fake smiles painted on your fake lips. ‘I thought: ‘what a lovely girl’,’ he tells us of your first meeting. ‘I fancied her straight away!’ Even when you try to stage manage you cannot hide the lies. You cheerlessly tell us about your ‘boys and girls jobs’. He takes out the bins and rakes in millions from the global investment company that he works for (never once getting any insider information from his wife). You refuse to put his dinner on the table because you’re too busy selling guns to terrorists.

Ah yes, those guns. Those guns. You little gun runner, you. ‘It keeps people on the streets of Britain safe,’ you tell us. Yes of course it does Theresa May. Of course I made sense in Manchester and fortnight ago and in London last weekend. Of course it makes perfect sense to sell guns to Saudi Arabia. Of course it makes sense to make money from the misery of others. The atrocities in Yemen, the dead mothers, the dead children. Do you smell their blood Theresa May? Do you hear their screams? And do you hear the cries of your own people as your actions are paid for in horror and tragedy? Are the billions that you make from your evil trade really worth the thousands of lives that will never be lived?

I see you Theresa May. I see the corporate Britain that you try to engineer. Not so much a country as a company. GB PLC. A Britain bereft of love and compassion, in which people are relegated to mere workers overseen by a rich elite masquerading as their bosses. A Britain in which the working classes are a disposable commodity like chickens in a battery farm. In which the old are tossed aside, their possessions stolen from them and their children left with no hope. A Britain in which the poor are left to starve on the streets; in which the weak and disabled are stubbed out like spent cigarette butts. A Britain that belongs to everybody but Britain: electricity sold to the Chinese to sell back to your minions at a vast profit; gas, water, trains, schools and finally the welfare state, the eternal gift that Bevan bestowed upon us, dismantled and sold to the highest bigger. A Britain bled dry for the privileged few.

I hear your lies Theresa May. I hear them every time you open your dry lips. You want to stay because ‘it’s the best for our country’. Then you want to go because ‘it’s the best for our country.’ But it benefits nobody but you Theresa May. Nobody but you and your insatiable pursuit of power. Didn’t hubby helpfully tell us about how you had plotted and schemed for years to achieve your ugly ambitions? (Didn’t hubby suffer for his loose mouth when he got home :))

You’re a coward Theresa May. I smell your cowardice. You’re a coward because even you cannot defend the indefensible. You refuse to meet your main rival face to face and instead send an underling. An underling whose father died only three days earlier. An underling on whose shoulders you lay the blame after she takes the blows that were meant for you. A coward Theresa May: if this is how you treat a friend and colleague what chance the rest of us?

You see yourself as Margaret Thatcher. Margaret Thatcher. And that, Theresa May, is the biggest crime of all. You’re the new Iron Lady ready to take your revenge on everybody who is not you. You see yourself as Margaret Thatcher but I see you for what you are.

I see you Theresa May. And others will too. I pray it is not too late before they do.


Some new watercolours… And a drawing


More watercolours

At the risk of watercoloring the world to death, here’s a few more recent ones.



Watercolours 2017

As I’m a geek I’m testing today’s update of IOS Keynote’s ability to send live presentations to WordPress. Probably got it wrong