Iestyn Edwards is...what?

At the station, Eirwen was standing beneath the Suffolk in Bloom prize-winner sign. She had shrunk again. I was waiting in the car. Gerard, picking up her suitcase (she gave him a  Don’t expect a tip look) congratulated her on the win.  She frowned. He pointed upward at the sign. She saw and said, ‘Oh, are we thinking that’s funny?’ Walking to the car Gerard asked what he should call her? ‘Mrs Edwards. Or Ms Silcox, my maiden name.’ I said, ‘And you can call him, The Right Honourable Gerard Crastley.’ Passing Eirwen’s case behind me, Gerard said, ‘Thank God one day Lord will at least be shorter.’  He didn’t see Eirwen’s disgusted look.  She waited for him to turn round so he could.  ‘Have you got anything special planned, or just seeing your special son,' he asked, driving onto the High Street.  ‘I don’t know what there is to be done here at all.’ ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I told you.’ To try and make her refuse to come. ‘Very quiet.’ I had invited her to stay ...

Twice, a week or so before starting a house-sitting stint, I went to spy out the multiple dogs that would be in my care. Between that reccy and the owners going away one of the dogs in each of the households died.  I imagined the pitiful horror of (me) having been the one to find the canine corpse; running to fetch someone. Who exactly? The canine police and/or canine coroner? Agonising between contacting the owners and ruining their holiday, or waiting for them to come back and the news immediately jettisoning the effect of any rest and enjoyment. Lurching about in distress like Lady Macbeth sleep walking.  Or Maria Callas in Tosca , having killed Scarpia, searching for Cavaradossi’s free pardon. Or – perhaps most dramatically - Hilda Ogden leaving the Street to a chorus in the Rover’s of “Wish me Luck as you Wave me Goodbye”.  Phew, frankly, that Mim and Tonto died pre-me.  The shock would almost certainly have brought on an asthma attack, bells palsy, a phantom mi...

  Thanks to my Second Saturn Return I’m currently living in a garden annexe accessed through the main house. Typically, m y landlord, Peter, ignored me telling him I couldn’t stop now, just come in, needed a wee, but followed me across the courtyard to tell me the bleeding obvious that he had taken my clothes off the line. He then hung about outside the grannexe, giving me enough time to have had my wee, before knocking on the door and repeat ing himself. This time (he knows I have no mobile coverage in the gr annexe) I told him I was on the phone. ‘ Oh, ok ay, but just to say, I’ve taken your clothes down off the line.’ ‘ I saw. Just on the phone.’ ‘ Ok ay, but i f you need them dryer, swish them through the tumble, I would.’ ‘ Can’t listen to you and the person I’m …’ There was his big Aubrey face now visible through the frosted glass. ‘ They’ll swish fast, I should imagine, as they were already all but dry.’ H e continued on. ‘ Jessica [his wife] was up early this morn...

I have perhaps tended to boast that I have the widest range of fees for my work, because I cater to the widest range of possible employers. For example, I have a £50 Zoom talk booked tonight for My Tutu Went AWOL! the talk and a Madame Galina Ballet Star Galactica cabaret set at a party in February 2027 for £1,500.  Perhaps I should have kept quiet about the more lower end fees. But then, thoughts speak to the universe.  It all wants thinking of more carefully. 

'My mother wasn’t prepared and forewarned about being evacuated, they just billeted her on some retired schoolteachers in the New Forest. Whereas, my granddaughter recently was given a forewarning photograph of her new infant school teacher.' 'Real ghosts vanishing always remind me of the shrinking dot of light at the very end of old television.' 'If your operation scar’s likely to be longer than six inches, always go private.' 'I just don’t think Bernard should be automatically in charge of everything. He’s selfish. He goes to Hastings every year the same two weeks and hogs the perpetual toaster. He tells us. As though it’s something to be proud of. And he expects the proprietress to keep his same table for meals and keep the peony in his vase dead upright, even if that means taking some of the fish tank gravel out of the vases on other tables. He checks, he tells us.' 'My immediate neighbour keeps telling her dog everyone loves it, which is blatant...

'If you wear anything you have to be asked about, don't.' 'Lots of big posh cars in the square today, occupants going up to the church. Somebody of self-importance must be dead.' 'He's one of that family that only look ginger from the front.' 'None of us on the till thought it was possible to override the takeaway drinks machine and do an oat milk hot chocolate. But Little Mary went on a mission. Sally and Big Mary were looking on, to see how Little Mary managed it. I stayed out of the way - didn't want any part, sorry. Took ever so long. Janice buttered at least three crusty rolls in the meantime. When she handed the drink over Little Mary asked the customer if it was okay, being a bit of a freak beverage, and he said it wasn't as hot as it could be, but that meant it wouldn't over-melt the marshmallow on his Easter Bunny biscuit, would it? Mary said, "All's well that ends well, then". But I could feel my own mind being stu...

On two occasions, a week or so before starting a house-sitting stint, I went to spy out the multiple dogs that would be in my care. Between that reccy and the owners going away, one of the dogs in each of the households died.  I imagined the pitiful horror of (me) having been the one to find the canine corpse. Running to fetch someone – who, exactly? The canine police and/or canine coroner?  Agonising between contacting the owners and ruining their holiday, or waiting for them to come back and the news immediately jettisoning the effect of any rest and enjoyment. Lurching about in distress like Lady Macbeth sleep walking.  Or Maria Callas in Tosca, having killed Scarpia, searching for Cavaradossi’s free pardon. Or – perhaps most dramatically - Hilda Ogden leaving the Street to a chorus in the Rover’s of “Wish me Luck as you Wave me Goodbye”.  Phew, frankly, that Mim and Tonto died pre-me.  The shock would almost certainly have brought on an asthma attack, bells ...