brokebackmonkey

2010-03-10T22:56:00.000Z

2010-03-10T22:50:00.001Z

ME LIKE ADVERT

2009-05-28T05:57:00.002+01:00

OK, so it's a commercial. Company: Dull dull dull. Advert: ME LIKE!

THE DUST MAN COMETH

2009-05-24T17:19:00.003+01:00

Due to a small cleaning emergency, the final installment of the windmill has been delayed but will be on your screens soon.

AND I LIVE IN A COUNCIL FLAT

2009-05-23T20:03:00.005+01:00

I have been absent for too long...fighting the forces of darkness.

But now I return to defeat my rival and reveal my own superpower.

I can scatter myself into tiny particals and collide them into one another, creating tiny black holes.

I am THE DUSTMAN. And I wear a dustman's hat.

So, I shall fight you to the death, Linguaman. Or at least as far as Haywards Heath. I do not fear your international translations or the fact that you sound like a cheap Italian pasta dish.

THE WINDMILL: THE LAST NIGHT

2009-05-10T20:08:00.005+01:00

There was a torch somewhere....Gilda's room. Yes. Idima began tearing back the pillows and sheets.

There, under the pillow was a drawing book.

She opened it.

On every page a childish drawing. But dark. Somtimes the figure was far away in the distance. Sometimes close, it's features black and cruel - even in her daughter's hand.

She turned the page. A drawing. And she knew at one who this was, and at once the image sickened her. Was this more than a child's imagination? Looking back at her in a child's smudged hand, was not her father, Ben. It was a face, darker, more familiar. It disgusted her. She wanted to burn it. The face was hers.

She looked again at the drawing. The childish image stared at her. Willing her. Daring her. She could feel the world closing in. Was her face so cruel? She had to see. She dropped the book, her eyes wet with tears, and ran to the bathroom. She stood facing the mirror and jumped.

She could see him in the reflection. Maybe five, six feet behind her. She could hear him breathe. Feel him, almost. His rancid breath on her skin. She looked over her shoulder. She knew the bible story - knew that Lot's mistake turned his wife to salt. But she had to see. Her head turned. She fought to keep her eyes open. And steeling herself she looked Tom Bones directly in the eye.

But he was gone. She spun round. Nothing.

"God! Show yourself you coward!"

Behind her. A voice.

"I don't take orders from you, bitch."

She turned back. There, in the mirror, was Tom. Full, staring eyes. Nothing between them. His thin, cracked lips and sallow skin. On his high forehead, the long bitter lines that a life filled with disgust were etched deep. Each furrow seemed like the open grave of a child. Another victim of this murderer.

She could feel the windmill, as if it were calling to her. Offering her sanctuary. She pushed Tom, and for the first time felt him. Physical. Real. Yet even as she did, he was like water. Mist. Incomplete. She had to get out of here. To find her daughter. The mist swirled and dispersed, and it was then that she heard the front door close.

"Thos."

No reply. She called again. But still no reply. She panicked. She was alone in the room. Thos...Tom....Gilda. All gone. What had happened to Thos. Had he run? Or was this Tom? She must sure he could not finish what he had begun. It must not be allowed. She pulled at the door. It was stiff, but finally it opened. Mist swirled around. The buildings around her were gone. She was alone. Totally and utterly alone. Except for the mill. The sails tore at the sky. Their very turning seemed to suck the oxygen from the air. With each rotation, a cold chill seemed to further grey the leadening sky. The sun had long since this last battle with night.

Suddenly the smell came again. Ben? No. This was Tom. She was sure this time. She could taste the metallic seep of blood on the wind. And now came the darking night. A brackish pricking at her skin which was at once clammy and ice cold.

"The children are mine." The voice was callous and bruising and high. The smell came stronger. It made her throat constrict: a stifling dread closed in on her. She wretched.

"Give-me-my-children."

Each word was deliberate, struggling. He struck her face.

His eyes were devious, black, crippling. His breath smelled musty. Rotten. Like a damp room that had been closed too long. The smell poisoned the air. She could feel the mark rising on her face, but now she could not see him. Frantically, she spun around, but he was nowhere.

She put her hand to her mouth. She was bleeding.

But now the words came easier, like eels slipping free from a broken net.

"You won't have my children. I'm not scared of you."

"Aren't you?" He paused. "A pity."

"And how about your mongrel children? Are they afraid?"

She saw a quick flash of steel to his right. It caught in the moonlight. His arm crooked, raising the knife up. Watched as he drew the small blade up level with his face. Saw as he pushed his tongue out through his thin, dry lips.

She spoke.

"Cut me. I don't care".

But he said nothing. Instead, with one swift drop of the arm he slashed the blade through his own tongue, Blood poured from his mouth. Death flowered at his lips like cancerous roses and all the while the taste of his blood hung on the air.

She stood facing the windmill, her damp hair tousled with sweat, blood and dirt. Quixotic.

She longed for a first strained hopelessness of day to whimper onto the horizon. But even if a trickle of dawn flowed, it seemed only to add grist to the mill. And now the sails were in full rotation, sweeping strokes against the brutal remains of night. But strokes made not of the wind, for there was none. But for the turning sails, all was still. But not Idima's heart. For that alone could be heard, above the angry silence. She did not wonder at the presence of no other heart, for she knew that Tom Bones heart, if indeed there still was a heart inside this beast, was withered and rotted to a poisoned core.

She did not know how she took those steps that she saw in the mudied grass behind her; only knew that when she turned back she was thrown down as a mighty sail struck her face, tearing the skin below her right eye. There was no way in or out of the mill, then. The door was boarded tight. She beat at the boards until her hands were bleeding;

"Tom! Tom Bones, I know you. I know who you are! Come here and show your face. Give me back my children!""

The sails seemed to quicken, but still there was no breeze: no way in. And it was then that she saw him. Framed against a window, half way up the mill. Tiny, too tiny to provide a way in. But what other way was there. And then she heard another voice.

"It's hurting me"!

Gilda

"Leave her alone!"

"Mummy!"

"For gods sake, let her go!"

Idima threw herself hard against the sail. It's force threw her back. Steeling herself, and dazed, she staggered to her feet, and again she threw herself against the sail. This time it caught her arm as is tore her off her feet. She felt her wrist shatter as she clutched at the wood. Felt the searing pain spread through her arm, through her body. Felt the sickening feeling of her stomach churning as she was turned by the sails. Somehow, disorientated, she managed to inch her way toward the centre of the mighty cross.

"Mummy!" The scream was louder, higher. She had only heard this sound before when Gilda has burned her arm against the iron when she was three. Why was she thinking about that now?

"Get away from her!" Thos' voice seemed to jolt her back to reality. Clear. Strong; but this was worse. More pleading. Begging him to stop. Was this what escape meant? Was this why they had run from Ben, from Gilda's father?

And suddenly, the sails stopped. She was flung hard again, this time against the force of the turning sails. She clearly heard the sound of bones shattering this time, but she felt no more pain. She was past that; now all she felt was revulsion. Revulsion for Tom Bones, and determination that he would not have her children. He had taken enough lives, and now it would come to an end.

THE WINDMILL: TAKEN

2009-05-03T20:14:00.021+01:00

The world was still. Tom was gone – for now. The Thos she knew stirred uncomfortably, but it was Tom she still saw upon his face. His features were marked by the sins of his ancestor…now they were burning through his innocence. Even sleeping the wicked satisfaction showed. She bit the cuticles around her fingers and sat contemplating her next move. She had carried Gilda into her bedroom. This was NOT her fault. The tooth she had lost seemed to have let Tom in, admittedly. Perhaps you could blame her for that, but how could Gilda have known?

She was puzzled by something Tom had said. And it made her think that the words were to spoken solely to mislead. Teacherous lies flowering like cancerous blooms upon the lips of her beloved Thos. Her baby. He said he’d washed ashore. But how could that be here? Brixton was miles inland.

Thoughts danced in her head like fire. And they ignited an idea. They had a computer – it was just about the only valuable thing in the flat. Thos used it for school. Thos wouldn’t waken for a while, but she needed to work quickly. She stopped, remembering something the woman who found them the flat had told her, and opened a cupboard in the hall. The electricity meter read "14 pence". The key though, she knew, had an emergency supply. There was a big "E" on the meter. Emergency. Well, she thought to herself...the meter got that right.

It took a minute or two for the computer to start up. Thos had set it up with a password, but fortunately there was a way to log in a guest. She’d put Thos’ secrecy down to teenage paranoia, but now she wondered if he’d been hiding more than just puberty from her.

A minute more and she was on the google page. She typed slowly B R I X T O N W I N D M I L L. The first few pages were for a nightclub. Her eyes scanned further down and there it was…a page about the mill itself. It all looked perversely normal. Youth clubs, open days, cheerful looking locals. She read on for a moment - reminded of other lives, happy, perfect. These people's reality seemed so abnormal now - Idima thought she must be going crazy. But then, something she read stopped that thought in its tracks:

In 1964 the mill was restored as near as possible to its original appearance, although not in complete working order. New sails and some machinery was made but most was obtained from a derelict mill at Burgh-le-Marsh in Lincolnshire which was then being dismantled. The mill opened to the public at Easter, 1968.

Further restoration and maintenance was carried out in 1978, and again in 1983 after serious vandalism. Despite campaigns by concerned local residents, the windmill has now been boarded up and closed to the public for a number of years.

Lincolnshire. The coast. That machinery...the fools that did that brought Tom here. Here to Brixton. Had he planned all this? Her head was reeling. She needed something to still the world. She walked unsteadily across the hallway and scrambled around in her toiletry bag. They were here somewhere. The sealed silver foil packs. 32 tablets per pack. She tapped the packet against her left hand. She noticed a new line. She was ageing. That couldn't be stopped, but...why was middle aged vanity here at a moment like this? She laughed. The tablets would help -just one. Thos had insisted, before Tom got inside him. Why? Why was he so desperate for her to take a silly little tablet? Unless...unless...Tom had been there all along. Telling him what to do - but these were her tablets. Could Thos have switched them? They had been in her bag the whole time. She pressed through the tetra pack. It fell onto the table. She stared in disbelief. A tooth lay there, root, crown – a child’s tooth. Her hand was shaking as she pushed a second pill from its plastic case. Dreading what she would find. Another tooth? Gilda’s? But Gilda had only lost one. Why was there....she pushed again. A third tooth. Again, and a fourth - how many more? Five, six... What was happening? And then she heard a scream.

"Gilda!"

The bathroom door slammed shut. A second scream, not of fear but pain. It bled through the wall. Hot knives thrusting in her ear. She could feel the agony of boiling nails freezing in her jaw as the teeth were torn from her daughter's gum. Suddenly, Gilda's cries ceased. She could hear a tune, humming. A familiar refrain. Her blood ran cold.

"Gilda! I'm coming. Mummy's..."

"Hush, mamma. Tom Bones has her".

The sentence smashed the remaining certainty of the world apart. Tom was growing more powerful than ever. Idima couldn't move. She was pinned against the wall and no amount of struggling, even the instinct of the mother to fight the monster that was harming her child could free her. And then she could hear Gilda once more. Yet all she could do was listen to her child, begging him to stop, powerless to help.

Suddenly, she could hear Thos moving! He had woken. She heard him pushing at the door from outside. But just as soon as a glimmer of hope had returned, Thos was thrown back as a supernatural strength slammed the door shut again. But now she had hope. Tom was not yet strong enough to fight all three of them at once.

"Thos. Help me."

With a sweeping moment of clarity, Idima knew Thos could stop Tom...but Thos was weakened from the drugged food. She managed to pulled open the door and flung herself between Thos and her daughter. Tom Bones face was there, carved from hate and anger. Idima reached deep into her past. Heard long forgotten words her Grandmother had taught her.

"uSathane suka uSathane uMvelinqangi."

She didn't know whether she spoke them or merely thought them but whatever had happened, Tom seemed to recoil. Fear and loathing flashed across his face. Idima seized these few precious seconds to reach her daughter. Gilda could barely even cry. There were no tears. Only pain etched upon her beautiful face. Blood was pouring from her mouth.

“I'm here. I'm here baby.”

She knew he was gone, for now at least. Something about those words... She lay her daughter on the bed and ran back into the bathroom. She found cotton wool and TCP. She would need to stop the bleeding. She could see Thos cowering in the hallway. Thos. Not Tom. He looked so small suddenly and his clumsy voice seemed to sharpen into focus as it pierced the surface tension in the air.

“Mum”.

The word made a stabbing pain. This was Thos' voice now. This was her son. The twin beasts of love and loathing battled in her as she looked down at him. She kissed his head though he shook beneath that kiss. A mother’s instinct for a moment silenced the beast which seconds before had reared up against her love for him. She knew he needed her. But so did Gilda.

She turned, but a sudden click plunged the world into black. Shit. Suddenly she remembered that you had to take the key out and put it back in for the emergency £5.00 to start working. She fumbled in the darkness...fingers touching, searching for the small black key. The lights came back on but in that one moment, everything changed. Gilda's bed was empty, the front door open.

She didn't need to speak. She knew instantly. He had her. Outside, the night was silent. She saw the sky, heavy with mist. There was almost nothing else. Every building was gone - except for one. Standing there. Watching. Four sails turned and stuck the air with triumphant blows. Ben...Tom...whoever it was had tricked her. And now she knew where she must go.

She looked at Thos. Who just smiled.

*

SHOCKHEADED PETER

2009-04-29T00:33:00.001+01:00

More dark musings from London's Theatreland past...

DU MASTE FINNAS

2009-04-29T00:27:00.002+01:00

It's in Swedish. So it's a little hard to understand. But it's beautiful nonetheless.

THE REALLY DIRTY LITTLE MERMAID

2009-04-28T23:50:00.002+01:00

This is totally juvenile. But it made me laugh so loud that I just had to post it. There's another version on youtube call "dirty little mermaid" that has much higher production values, but for me, this is just funnier somehow.

ALL ABOUT EVE

2009-04-25T12:30:00.003+01:00

Oh dear.

You finally get on telly and then you can't hear anything through your earpiece.

How embarrassing.

Which is a shame cos it's a nice song.

I think the guitarist makes me laugh the most.

THE WINDMILL: TOM'S STORY

2009-04-22T19:58:00.008+01:00

Thos's eyes were glassy and behind them his life was paused.

"Tom Bones. I call you forward from the darkness".

Throaty words came. Barely audible. Crackly, weak, like a badly tuned radio. She couldn't make them out. Only their gutteral growl...choking.

Thos' head lifted unnaturally. As if it was being pulled up by an invisible cord. His hand moved forward across the table towards her, but then the fingers shriveled into a claw, curled, dragged back across the surface. His fingernails dug into the wood, and Idima's teeth set on edge at the sound of the skin pulling, cuticles tearing.

"Stop it!" She covered her ears.

A heartbeat. And then the voice again. Choked with phlegm, it rasped. "This is your fault".

"Are you Tom Bones?"

"Tom....yes. That name."

"Where are you?"

"Here."

She shivered.

"Why have you come? What do you want from me?"

"I don't want you."

"Then..."

"The children".

Another choking cough. She wasn't sure if this was Tom or Thos.

The voice came again. "I want my children."

"I don't have your children."

"These". He looked through Thos' eyes at Gilda and raised Thos cut finger up to his mouth. Touched it to his cold, cracking lips. The face was more palid...as if life were draining from its skin. "Are my children".

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because I can."

Idima looked at him. Trying to see her son. Just then he swayed and she thought he would fall. But the body stopped and a sickening smile seeped across his face as his head hovered above Gilda's mouth.

"You can really smell the bones through her skin."

She jumped up, trying to force him away from her daughter but he grabbed her wrist with a supernatural strength and she had to fight back from screaming as he dug Thos's fingers into her flesh. She fell back into her chair. Even without nails the vice-like grip of his fingers broke her skin.

"Sit down. Slut Teef." He spat the words at her.

He released his grip. She rubbed her arm trying to get the marks out of her skin.

"Who are you?"

"You know who I am."

Idima shivered. "Why won't you leave us alone?"

"I want what is mine. What they stole from me."

"Who?"

He studied her face for a moment before answering.

"The people here".

She waited for him to continue.

"A tooth....for a tooth." The pause was sickening.

He seemed to be rambling now. There was something pitiful in his voice - but a vengeful grief too...if there was grief it was turned in on itself, and any pity was only self-pity.

"You want to know about Tom Bones? Tom Van Moost I was then. Before....."

His voice trailed off momentarily. Then he took up with a new fire.

"To hear how a war took a 14 year old boy and turned him into this?"

Idima continued "Yes. Tell me."

Tom's voice was clearer now, though the accent was strange.

"A war about money. As are all wars. 40 souls were lost when my ship went down. She was my beautiful destroying angel. A wave, a single cruel blow from a God who doesn't care and she was gone. The English could have saved more. But they watched them drown. Fifteen hours I languished in the sea. Until they returned...to save me from dignity. So that they could chain me in hell."

He laughed. "Death is the only certain, true hope."

He seemed to fade. Idima looked at her son. He looked so small.

And then Tom was here again. Ice cold. Tom's voice, hot breath marked out in the cold air with condensation. And though Thos' lips were not moving, still the voice came forth.

"For three nights and days I was raped by their crew. And God? He watched them. No devil could have been so cruel."

The words turned, winding about her as Idima was transported to that small, disgusting hold in the ship, 200 years before. She smelled rotten gangrinous flesh, the stench of piss, death, hopelessness.

And then in the darkess, she saw...herself. So young. Barely older than Thos. A girl with what little strength remained, lunging for the wooden door. It was locked. Tight.

She was weak, but still had a quickness to the eye and the hand, and with that still, clever eye she watched, and with that quick, deft hand she darted, and caught hold of a rat. It's neck broke with a single snap. She was hypnotised for a moment by how the head lolled and swung. It was almost comic. But this was just delirium. She tore at the rat's throat, knowing where a fat juicy vein would still be rich with blood. A blood that might just sustain her for a few more hours.

She slipped into unconsciousness. She had no idea how long she had remained in that hold. Suddenly, she was thrown against the wall. The ship had pitched against rocks. Above, she could hear the crew. Cries, men fighting, abandoning their ship as she began to break up. She begged for death to come at last, but death would not come.

A tearing. Wood shattering and suddenly she could feel salt water on her face, and the rushing of the sea. And then she was under the water. Fighting to breathe. Drowning. Slipping once more into darkness.

When she stirred, she could feel pain throughout her body. She coughed. Trying to clear the water from her lungs. Thos was looking at her. Expressionless. Not even hate.

Thos' mouth opened but this was Tom's voice once more.

"I washed ashore in this hell. Albion. Devil's Island. I held my tongue, so they assumed that my injuries had silenced me. Stupid fools. They took me into their homes. And for a year, they cared for me. And i listened. Learned to understand their horrid way of speaking. Their mongrel language. I stayed in the town. Ran errands for the farm. The slaughterhouse. The mill."

As he spoke the last words a firm expression returned. Triumph.

"And I found my home. The miller taught me well. He died in the wheels of his trade. I think he enjoyed that."

Idima's heart grew cold.

"I took the first one without them knowing. A child passing through town. Lost. I took her in. She didn't take long to die, and she was small. I cooked her and fed her to the dogs. Simple and clean. But there were bones of course. I couldn't risk them being found. But the mill wheels were strong, and grain being scarce that harvest it seemed a waste not to add a little extra to the flour, so I ground up her bones. And then I only needed 38 more."

Idima fought back the urge to be sick as Tom went on to tell her how he took more and more children and how he began to sell the flour to the baker. There was glee, pride even, as he described grieving parents eating bread containing the ground up bones of their own children. And any fleeting pity she had felt turned to disgust as 9 more souls were avenged.

But Tom fell short of his hideous quest. The town grew suspicious of Tom Bones and one night men lay in wait outside the mill. As Tom Bones rode out, they found the hair on the millstones. Hair of children who had struggled and cried out as they were crushed between the grinding wheels.

Tom Bones described without emotion how the local magistrate had ordered him crucified upon the sails of the mill; how fathers, sons, grandmothers, sisters and multitudes from all around the neighbouring parishes could come. The good and the stoic, the meek and the curious - all come to see the vengeance of a town who reaped what their brothers in the English navy had sown. Or so it was in the eyes of the man who hung dying upon the sails of the mill he had won from his first victim.

Tom Bones it was who died on those sails. Thomas Van Moost, the boy, died much earlier...Eventually, the Van Moost name dwindled until only a few remained with that scattered descent, to carry on the line.

T O M B O N E S --- did she need it spelled out --- B E N M O O S T. Thos and Gilda's father. Why hadn't she seen it? Idima's heart curled and withered within her: a small bird dying in it's cage. Tiny stains scudded across the window: trees weeping their leaves. All was lost. All despair. Tom Bones lived now in the two children she had born. And as long as they lived, none were safe.

*

ERRANT BLOGGER

2009-04-22T19:10:00.004+01:00

Finally getting free from the brutal, choking chains of my contract at Paramount Studios, I wrestled my way past the hollywood piranhas and made it to the laptop. Fortunately I grabbed it just before the drawbridge raised and made it back to the warmth and safety of Sunset.

So here I am, a monkey typing a much overdue blog entry and assuring my four followers that their faith in me has not been misplaced.

Like Norma Desmond, think of it as a return - not a comeback.

Of course that was before she tried to bury me in the garden.

WAR POETRY

2009-04-13T19:44:00.002+01:00

The battlefield

take arms thine enemy comes
imposter arise
they told me i should find
mine enemy a shapeless murdering fiend

such surety kings and fools must share
echos despairs thread and weave
their dark and bloody weft: the cold careless thrust of steel
the battle cries of newborn foes

bring once again the hatred night of men
fallen infants reddened hands
they slew their brothers there in fields of future tallow
barely ripped from wombs

deceit alone found i there that night
I closed my heart and blind
knelt before the king of lies
was i the fool? for in mine enemy’s eye
that shapeless murdering fiend
i saw was i

THE WINDMILL: TOM BONES

2009-04-13T17:33:00.003+01:00

Gilda stared at the picture laying in front of her mother as she entered the cold kitchen.

"Why didn't you tell me your tooth came out?"

Gilda looked at her and her expression changed. Her bottom lip stuck out.

"Did you put it under your pillow?"

Gilda nodded.

"Did the tooth fairy take it?"

Gilda shook her head. She pointed at the picture. The man.

Something turner in her stomach. "He took it?"

Gilda nodded.

"Don't lie".

She grasped her daughter's arm. Her grip was tight and the sudden movement made Gilda jump. At that same moment, Thos came in. Immediately, she released her grip. Gilda turned without hesitation. Not sure what she had done, but sure that it was bad. Idima pushed the paper at him. He looked down without flinching. She knew he must have written the name Tom Bones. Gilda couldn barely write her own name properly, and though she had drawn the picture, she was sure Thos must have written that name over and over again.

"Who is Tom Bones?"

Her question was direct. Thos took up the paper and stared at picture. His face seemed etched with guilt, anger, fear, all fighting for prominence. But above all these was guilt. She knew instantly that Thos was behind this. Playing games.

"You know, don't you? You know who wrote that name."

Thos signed "Yes."

She looked at him. Now they were getting somewhere.

"I need to know who Tom Bones is." She felt her skin prickling and looked down, the paper. It shifted slightly. There was static in the air and then a glassy look came over Thos's face. Electricity coursed through the room. As she looked down at the table, a glass began to shake.

"Thos?"

No response.

"Thos!"

But he was staring ahead, emotionless. She knew what this meant. She had to act fast - dragging the table across the floor she turned - justin time to catch Thos as he fell. A glass shattered on the floor. She couldn't mind that. Frantically she kicked chairs away from him - her eyes scanning for cushions, jackets, anything. She rushed into his room and hauled a duvet and pillows from the bed, just in time - back in the kitchen, it had already started. Twitching at first. The jaw clamping shut. Then came the convulsions. In 30 seconds he was shaking so violently that even the pillows and towels and duvet were useless. She tried desperately to cradle his head. There was broken glass, but she daren't move him.

And then, she heard the scream.

"GILDA!" Idima leapt up but her foot caught on her son's body and she fell, awkwardly. As she pitched forward, her hand lacerated against a shard of glass.

She cried out in pain...two seconds...three...

"Mummy!" Her daughter's voice was pleading. She crawled into the hallway in time to see Gilda sitting on her bed clutching her pony.

"Baby...."

But Gilda was not looking at her. She was looking at someone that Idima could not see. Someone standing behind the bedroom door. A door that was now closing. Idima scrambled to her feet too late. The door closed.

"Mummy!" Her daughter's voice was muffled. She lunged for the handle, but recoiled in pain. Both hands were badly cut and her blooded fingers slipped feebly from the handle. She grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her hand. She bore the pain and tried again. The door wouldn't open.

"Gilda!"

She could hear her daughter whimpering, sobbing behind the closed door. She put her shoulder to the door and pushed. It wouldn't budge at first. She tried again. With more force. It gave. Just a little. Twice more she threw her whole weight at the door, oblivious to the pain in her body. And with one final push the door flung open. But the bed was empty. For one crushing moment she thought he had her. But then, from under the bed, she heard a sob.

"It’s okay. It’s okay...."

She took her daughter's arm and pulled her out from under the bed. Her face was streaked with tears, but she was safe.

"He's gone. He's gone baby."

Somehow, she managed to move Thos into his bed. He could sometimes take several hours to recover from a seizure. She began clearing up the broken glass feom the kitchen floor and looked in on him again. As she put his pillows and bedclothes back on the bed, her fingers curled tightly around a thin book. It had been tucked under the mattress, out of site. She ran her fingers across the cover - it wasn't braille but the book was weathered and raised marks and bumps told her fingers more than her eyes. Where had he found it?

The book was given to her by her grandmother. Its spells and rhymes, ancient remedies and potent charms. Most dismissed it as bunkum. But not Idima. She remembered the dreams. She remembered the spirits that her grandmother conjured from the fire as she read from its pages.

If Tom Bones was here, this could be a way to get him out into the open. To exorcise the poison that was taking her son from her. She hadn't ever performed a ritual herself, and half the herbs she needed didn't exist here. She would have to be inventive...to live on her wits.

Running to the kitchen, she opened box after box of pills. Packets, jars, searching for something she didn't quite know until she found it. She gathered up handfuls of coloured pills, and threw them into a plastic bag. In the kitchen was a rolling pin. She could use that to grind them up and then....what? Put them in a glass and ask him to drink it? Tom Bones was cleverer than that. He had proven it already.

Dinner! Of course. It had to be something that masked the taste. Spicy - hot. She got to work...there wasn't a whole lot in the kitchen that would work. Maybe chilli. Gilda wouldn't eat chilli unless it didn't have beef in it. Perfect - Thos was a human dustbin. She knew she could carry this off. All she needed was to get Thos to eat enough to make him a little drowsy - then she could call Tom Bones through.

Before long, two saucepans were simmering away. Thos almost caught her slip the powder into his half of the meal. When had he woken?

"Don't creep up on me like that".

"Are you okay?" Came the signed response.

"I'm fine. How are you feeling?"

Thos gestured back "so-so".

"Well I've made enough chilli for an army."

She couldn't read his face.

"Where's your sister?"

He seemed to shiver and shrugged. Idima turned back to the cooker and continued stirring the two pots. She had to remember which was which.

Thos stood stock still. For a moment, she thought he must have guessed what she'd done. But then he turned and left the room. She swallowed, her eyes fixed on the task in hand but her attention elsewhere.

An hour or so later, Thos and Gilda were in the living room. Thos signed something to his sister that Idima couldn't see.

"Can you sit at the table?"

They glanced at one another. Something in the gesture made Idima uneasy. No mind, soon it would be done.

Gilda, I made it without meat so you can eat it.

"I want it with meat in". Idima stopped.

"Don't be silly".

"I eat meat now".

"No you don't".

"Yes I do. I eat meat."

"Since when".

Gilda looked at her brother. There was something sly in her look. Idima had never seen that on her face before.

"Fine. You can have what Thos has but only a little bit. You won't like it.

Soon, the food was ready. They sat in silence - Gilda and Thos wouldn't eat until Idima started. She could barely get a mouthful down. Her stomach was churning. But she had to play this scene as totally normal. Tom must suspect nothing.

Gilda was not so much eating as pushing the food around her plate. Making silly shapes.

"Gilda, eat properly".

"It tastes funny".

Idima didn't look up.

"Of course it tastes funny. It's got meat in it."

"I don't like it".

"Well then why did you ask for it?"

Gilda rocked backwards and forwards and picked up a spoonful of chilli which made it as far as her mouth before she turned up her nose.

"Gilda." There was threat in Idima's voice.

"Three more spoofuls".

Thos looked at his mother. "She doesn't want it."

An awkard silence descended.

Despite barely a third of her meal passing her lips, Gilda was first to react. Her body being so much smaller than Thos, her eyelids drooped a little and she began a yawn.

"Cover your mouth, please".

A tiny hand was raised to her lips.

Thos looked at his sister. A puzzled expression flickered across his face.

"Gilda, go to your room."

Gilda yawned again.

Idima picked up her daughter's plate and took it into the kitchen. Both children watched her. Gilda wobbled slightly. Thos looked at her trying to work out why she was going slightly in and out of focus. As if he was looking at her through a camera that wasn't working properly.

Idima came back into the room and walked behind them.

"Come on". As she said this, she took her daughter's hand and lifted her from the table.

"Mummy..."

The sentence never formed as Gilda was pulled to her feet and almost collapsed as her head whirled. She couldn't feel her legs. Thos watched with bemusement. It looked quite funny. But why wasn't he moving? He could see something was wrong with his sister, but why didn't it....matter.....and why did his legs felt like lead - like he was pinned to his....seat? Suddenly the world seemed to fall from under him as he collapsed, sending plates, knives and chilli crashing to the floor.

Idima looked down at her son. She felt wicked, but she knew that this was the only way she could be sure that he was safe. She knelt down with real tenderness and made sure his breathing was steady. Fortunately the way he had slumped had somewhat cushioned his fall. Putting his arm around her shoulder she managed to lift him back into his seat. She lay him forward so that his head rested against the table and set about picking up the scattered plates so that if he fell again he wouldn't hurt himself.

She brought some candles from the kitchen through to the table and lit them. Salt. Damn. She began frantically searching through cupboards. Nothing. "Think!"

She said this out loud to herself, and as if by command she remembered she had seen some old sachets of salt in the back of the cutlery draw. She tore them open and began to scatter them in a wide circle around the table. There would just have to be enough.

Once she had checked on Gilda, whose breathing was shallow but steady, she turned off every light in the apartment.

She took a small knife and sat at the table opposite Thos.

He looked so beautiful in the candlelight. So peaceful. So innocent. She stroked his face.

"My beautiful son."

A tear rolled down her cheek. She took a deep breath and unwrapped the bandage which she had wrapped around the had she had cut earlier. She opened her wound. A small trickle of blood dripped onto the table. She took Thos hand and made a tiny incision into his finger. Putting a tiny trace of her own blood onto her son's lip, she took her finger and caught a drop of his blood which she put upon her own lip.

And with this gesture the bond was made and Idima spoke.

"Blood of my blood,
Salt of my skin"

She waited. Nothing.

"Come, Tom Bones. Show yourself."

The candle flickered, and then nothing.

What had she forgotten? She hadn't ever had to do this by herself. There had always been....someone else. Gilda! They needed a third. A trinity.

Idima jumped up. She moved the candles off the table and dragged her sleeping daughter from her room, where she laid her tiny sleeping form beside herself and Thos. Inside the circle of salt.

She took up the knife once more, this time making a small cut in her daughter's finger. She hesitated before the knife pierced her daughter's skin in a way that she had not before cutting herself or Thos. As if the pain would be greater. This time she spoke the words first.

"Blood of my blood, salt of my skin
breath of my body, born of my flesh"

This time she held Thos, Gilda and her own finger together. Immediately their blood met, the temperature in the room dropped. Air rushed in, icy cold. She could make out her own breath in the candlelight and two of the flames were snuffed out.

In a moment the glow from those candles that remained lit returned. Idima watched as Thos stirred.

"Tom Bones". Her voice sounded clear, strong. Commanding. "Tom Bones".

*

KATE BUSH

2009-04-11T23:37:00.004+01:00

This is from the top drawer of my "I haven't finished the next chapter of The Windmill so I'm just going to post a video that I love" blog entries....

THE WINDMILL: WRITING ON THE WALL

2009-04-05T15:26:00.006+01:00

An hour or so later, they sat at the table. By now, Idima felt calmer - sure her mind must be playing tricks. But equally sure she wasn't going mad. Thos had made her take some tablets that made her drowsy. She didn't really believe in tablets. Doctors were always trying to get you to take things. But Thos said it would help. Gilda was playing with Peggy - some sort of story about a boat she guessed, since Peggy was currently floating in the sink.

"Why don't you go and see Susan?" Thos was back to signing everything - a sure sign he was still cross.

"I don't need to see Susan. I'm fine".

"There's no-one in the flat. I checked."

"I know what I saw." There was steel in her tone, but in truth she was beginning to doubt it herself. Time was ever the thief of certainty. She knew what Thos was driving at. Sure that he would use this as an excuse to tell her she couldn't cope.

There was an atmosphere for the rest of the morning. In the afternoon, she took Gilda to McDonalds. Even that was a drama. Gilda wanted a burger without pickles and the girl behind the counter got the order wrong. Idima complained, but for the rest of the time they were there she had to put up with the staff looking at her and talking about her under their breath.

By the time they returned home, Thos was in his room with the door shut. That was all she saw of her son for the rest of the day. Gilda seemed content drawing a picture of either a helicopter or a starfish (she didn't like to ask which it was), but the exertions of the previous few days seemed to have worn her out, and she fell asleep even before dinner. Idima didn't have the heart to wake her, so she carried her in to bed and put her under the covers. Then, silence. How she hated the sound it made. There was no point eating alone, and it was already getting dark by the time Idima herself dozed off on the sofa. She wasn't sure how long she had been asleep when she heard Gilda start drawing again. But it was pitch black. Surely Gilda was in bed? There it came again - scribbling. She lay, listening. The sound was at once rhythmical and erratic. Like mice, scratching along to Stravinsky. She wasn't worried about mice. She could set traps as she'd done that in the last place. But this was just...odd. It reminded her of being at school. And then she remembered. The sound of a pencil, scratching out the shapes of words. But there was a pattern. As if someone were writing the same word, over and over.

"Thos?” Her voice sounded detached, as if she was hearing someone else. And the scratching immediately, obediently ceased.

But then as soon as it had stopped. The silence came again like an apocalypse. Then it began again. The rhythm like before, but quicker this time; the scratching louder, the intent more violent. And now fascination turned to fear because she could hear someone whispering. The same words over and over. Hoarse, low. A man's voice. She tried to make out the word, but couldn't. Her mind was focused on another sensation. The smell of ammonia.

She sat bolt upright. Her heart was pounding. The room was so dark that she could barely make out her own hand. But still the scratching went on. She fumbled for a light switch. Where was the damn thing? She bumped her leg hard against the table and winced in pain. Then, just as she found the switch, the sound abruptly stopped.

Light flooded the room. She looked at where the sound had some from...and there it was. Gilda’s drawing. Only now, more clearly, she saw it was a windmill – and beside it the figure of a man, childishly drawn with stick arms and legs and a weird shaped hat. Around them both, in writing that could not be Gilda's were the same two words, written over and over again.

TOM BONES
TOM BONES
TOM BONES
TOM BONES
TOM BONES

*

STARS

2009-04-04T23:37:00.003+01:00

I do like a little bit of Opera. I don't think Opera singers should do other things like Pop covers - I mean there's no good reason for G4 to reform, and to be honest Maria Callas couldn't change a lightbulb for toffee.

But I do think they are quite good at singing. Opera singers, that is.

Not G4

BEAT ME TILL I'M BLACK

2009-04-04T00:15:00.002+01:00

This just makes me smile.

THE GRAND NATIONAL

2009-04-03T22:06:00.004+01:00

It's that time of year....The Grand National! I always have a little wager on this, even though I know it's not very PC. And my bets are modest cause a monkey only has so much dough.

My bets this year are:

Rambling Minster 9/1
Total stake:£4.00Estimated return: £26.50
Kilbeggan Blade 18/1
Total stake:£4.00Estimated return: £49.00
Can't Buy Time 40/1
Total stake:£4.00Estimated return: £104.00
Golden Flight 66/1
Total stake:£2.00Estimated return: £84.50
Butler's Cabin 8/1
Total stake:£4.00Estimated return: £24.00
State Of Play 12/1
Total stake:£2.00Estimated return: £17.00

I would enter myself, but there isn't a Monkey Derby.

THE WINDMILL: SOMETHING IN THE ROOM

2009-04-02T21:06:00.004+01:00

At breakfast the next morning, Thos was move communicative than he had been for some time.

"Morning".

He signed back before taking his place at the table.

"What do you want for breakfast?"

"Whatever" came the signed slang. She smiled to herself. It probably would be "whatever" since all they had was Sugar Puffs and she had forgotten to get milk. Gilda was eating straight from the packet. Thos smiled at her and signed "pig".

Gilda make an oinking sound without looking up. It unnerved Idima slightly that Gilda and Thos seemed to be able to sign with one another without the need for eye contact. Nonetheless, they both seemed happy, and that was important.

"Do you want to come to Brixton today?"

Thos made the effort to speak. "No."

OK. I have to get something for dinner. Let me know what you want.

"McDonalds". Gilda piped up.

"We'll get something from McDonald's when we go to Brixton. We have to have something proper for dinner."

Thos didn't argue, pouring himself a glass of coke.

"Did you sleep okay?"

Thos shrugged. He shrugged a lot lately, but she took it as a "yes".

Gilda stopped eating and re-joined the conversation. "My room smells funny".

Idima looked at her. "What d'you mean?"

Gilda looked pensive. "It smells of old people."

Idima couldn't help but smile. "What do old people smell like?"

Gilda didn't seem to have an answer for that. She put her fingers in her mouth, looking for an answer. None was to be found. She looked at Thos, who signed "P-I-S-S".

Gilda giggled. Idima scowled. "It's still swearing if you spell it".

She was still annoyed with Thos as she stood, changing the sheets on Gilda's bed. Gilda hadn't had any little accidents for a while. Hopefully it was just the move that unsettled her...whatever it was, Idima thought it best not to make a big deal out of it, and certainly she didn't want to tell Gilda off. If she was worried about the move, that would only make her worse.

"I can wash them and they'll be dry by tonight.”

"I didn't do it."

"It doesn't matter."

Gilda folded her arms and stomped off. "It wasn't me".

The rest of the morning was a washout. It was still drizzling out, and Gilda was sulking. Thos sat engrossed in the TV. She could see the windmill standing alone...forlorn: its sails hanging impotent and redundant. She knew just how it felt. It was weird how quickly optimism could fade. As if the rain were washing happiness away.

She wished Thos wouldn't swear in front of Gilda. He never used to do it, but he’d changed lately.

Suddenly, something made her shiver. She snapped out of a thought and spun round, expecting someone to be behind her, but there was no-one. Maybe she had imagined it, but she could swear she'd sensed someone standing there. Maybe she was just jumpy. You had to get used to the sounds in a new home. Plumbing, creaky doors...homes had personalities.

She shook out a pillowcase, shaking off a crackle of static in the air – probably from the sheets. Something fell to the floor - something that had been hidden inside. It fell under the bed. Idima crouched down, feeling around under the slats. Maybe it was just a button off the duvet....or...

"Aha!" She felt her fingers brush against something hard and tiny. No bigger that a bit of gravel. But what was gravel doing in the flat? She held the object up. Not gravel. It was a tooth.

Gilda’s wobbly tooth had must have come out in the night...

She asked out the tooth out loud "Where did you come from?" She froze. Someone was behind her.

"It’s mine".

The words hung there - sucking the warmth from air until she could see the condensation from her own breath. Slowly, she turned. She could smell something...a trace of ammonia. But before she could look over her shoulder, something caught her eye... a movement outside the flat. The windmill’s sails were turning and for a moment she was outside herself.

The catchment window blew shut with a crash. Had it been open? Idima spun round again. Nothing. Then in the doorway. A shadow. There had been someone there. She was sure. She stepped toward the door was and another CRASH! The door slammed shut. Idima tried to open it, but it was icy cold and her hands stuck fast to the metal handle.

"Gilda!"

She called her daughter's name desperately. Thos wouldn't hear.

"Open the door!"

Nothing. She was trapped. Then behind her. Again. A figure. She tried to turn fully around, but her hands were stuck like glue.

She screamed.

There was Thos. Tall, strong, standing in front of her. "What's wrong?" He signed to her and she burst into tears.

"Where were you?"

"I went out."

"Don't do that again!"

"What?"

"Not without telling me first! He could have been there."

Thos looked away.

"What if he followed you here?"

"I didn't see him."

She wished she could believe him. "He could have seen you. You don't understand. You don't know him....."

"I do". This was signed like a full stop. "I can't see him. I get it."

Idima stood watching him go. She knew what she had seen. Someone in the room with her...her daughter's room - but not her daughter. Not Thos. She turned to the window: the windmill was there. Still, where a moment before the sails had been turning.

*

THE WINDMILL: SHADOWS

2009-03-31T15:29:00.004+01:00

Thos was first to bed. He had seemed quiet when she came back in. But then, there was much to think about. So many things had changed.

The flat was warm enough, but it took Idima a while to shake off the chill evening and she shivered as she crossed the hall into what was now Gilda's room.

"Have you brushed your teeth?"

Gilda nodded.

"Still nothing for the tooth fairy?"

"No. Can I sleep with the light on?"

"Ok. But just for tonight."

She didn't see the harm, just for one night. This was a new room, full of strange shapes.

"Do you want me to tuck you in?"

"I have to tuck Peggy in first".

"Okay. You tuck Peggy in and I'll be back in a minute".

She left the room and switched on the radio in the lounge. Tonight there was some sort of debate going on about whether London should have better flood defences. Idima didn't care, but she liked the fact that other people did. She needed sounds to paint the silence. The sound of real voices, real people...out there in the night.

She must have lost track of the time because when she returned to her daughter, Peggy was laid lovingly on the pillow beside Gilda, who was already tucked in. Thos must have done it. She seemed to be sleeping - smiling almost. Idima switched off the light. If she left the door open just a little, the light from the hall would probably be enough to banish any monsters. And of course, Gilda had her "magic" torch with the colours that she could turn on if she did wake up.

Outside, the night rumbled on. Buses became night buses. Pubs became clubs became kebabs. Taxi lights clicked on, off, and fares were ferried across the sprawling city. Below them, a rat pattered thriftily through a pile of black sacks. It had babies to feed. It gorged itself on the remains of a fatty pork chop, scratching at the bone until it was sure that there was nothing left to scavenge. Suddenly it stopped; sudden sound, sudden fear. The rat's heart quickened. It sniffed the air. Danger! It scampered, frantic, lightning, through the discarded tins and rotting food and shattered bones and flew, desperate, a trail of tiny steps in flour up, up, up the stairwell, one flight, two, three, to the balcony outside number 7. It stopped dead. Tiny heart thumping. It was frozen – it knew the feel of a predator. It turned, knowing that the cat would be there...but nothing - no cat, only the night. For a moment it wondered if its instincts were lying...but then cold passed through its body, through the door, inside the flat. For a moment, it wanted to flee. But it could only stand, frozen to the spot as its body convulsed and twitched, clutching for breath.

On the other side of the door, Idima lay sleeping on the slightly tatty sofa bed. She stirred. Years of abuse had taught her to sleep only lightly. But she was not the first to wake. Across the hall, Gilda reached her had across the pillow to where a small toy horse lay. Her fingers felt for its comforting plastic and synthetic mane. Not here. Her fingers searched a little higher...to the left...right. Peggy was gone. She closed her eyes tighter still, not wanting to see a dark filled with spiders and trolls and child-catchers. Her fingers closed around a circular form - still plastic – not her beloved Peggy, but for now just as good. Her little fingers slid a simple switch and a beam of warm yellow light spilled forth, illuminating the room, sending imaginary spiders scattering on the four winds, banishing trolls, turning child-catchers to dust.

Gilda opened an eye. There at the end of her bed lay Peggy, safe and sound. Maybe she had flown there - maybe she didn’t like the new house? Gilda took her gently and held Peggy close to her face. She stroked Peggy’s hair and whispered gently, reassuring her. “See – no spiders.” As if to illustrate this, Gilda moved her hand across the beam of the torch in a creeping fashion – just as her brother did from time to time when they had shared a room. “No monsters”.

She lay the torch down beside them and pulled a sheet around so that they could lay together – comforted by the warm yellow glow from the torch in their nest of pillows and sheets. Moments later, she was drifting off again, safe and sure in the knowledge that Peggy was safe beside her. And perhaps it was just as well that only Peggy’s eyes saw the shadow of a man cross the torch’s beam and turn as if considering the sleeping child...and waiting.

*

SCARY POPPINS

2009-03-29T08:37:00.003+01:00

I am going to see Mary Poppins when I am in Cardiff. I hope it's not in Welsh. I can't speak Welsh. Although I like that thing they do on toast. And I like Under Milk Wood as well, even though I am lactose intolerant.

ON THE WATERFRONT

2009-03-28T06:52:00.002Z

I went to see a Steven Berkoff version of On The Waterfront. I thought this was the thing about all them rabbits that live down a hole. Very disappointing. There were NO rabbits at all. Just some sort of misunderstanding about a man who slipped on a banana. I quite liked that bit.

TONYA HARDING

2009-03-25T12:15:00.003Z

Tonya Harding before she moved into professional wrestling. Yes, really. Ice staking has ruined so many lives.

ALIEN BLOUSE

2009-03-24T23:12:00.003Z

I am making a new feature film. It's going to be huge in Boone. It may be harder to market in the UK.

MONEY TO BURN

2009-03-22T19:00:00.002Z

Having given it some more thought, I don't think I did cause the global recession. But I still think my Monkeyarium might have contributed.

THE WINDMILL: THE FIRST SUPPER

2009-03-22T12:52:00.004Z

"Is Daddy going to come and live with us?" The question came some way into dinner. Pizza with anchovies and extra cheese (Gilda's choice - Idima hated anchovies). They were going to have chips as well, but the oven cremated them in under 10 minutes.

"No."

She glanced at Thos but couldn't read him.

"Do you want salad cream?

"Is he in the hospital?"

She looked at Thos again. He seemed so serious. So grown up. So unlike the little girl asking....

"Is he going to go to Heaven?"

This was so matter-of-fact it caught Idima off guard.

"Eat your dinner”.

"Can we go to McDonalds tomorrow?"

How did a five year old's brain jump from death to McNuggets? She turned to her son, searching for something to say.

"Thos...."

"Gilda, why don't you go and get Peggy?"

"Mummy, can I get down"?

Idima looked at Thos. He nodded. Gilda was already half way off her seat anyway. Once she was out of earshot, he spoke.

"She's old enough to be told the truth".

Idima knew he was serious when he made the effort to speak without signing.

"Maybe. But not old enough to understand it."

They sat without talking, Idima playing with her food. Thos always ate, no matter what.

When Gilda returned, Thos had already begun clearing the plates. The three of them communicated with a series of little glances. Gilda was playing out a story of which only she knew the plot; it's protagonist a toy pony whose hair had been lovingly brushed, plaited and petted a thousand times. Peggy was the constant in a young life that had seen more than it's fair share of tragedy, and yet never seemed fazed by change or disappointment.

"Peggy doesn't like the man".

Thos looked at her and signed.

"What man?"

Gilda didn't look up. Peggy was dancing and had her undivided attention. Gilda did say some funny things, but something about the way she said "the man" made Idima uncomfortable. But then, this was all new and she'd seen alot of unfamiliar people today.

"I'm going to put the bin out."

It was amazing how much rubbish could be produced by just three people. She put everything in together. She didn't know if there was anywhere to put recycling, and anyway, the council probably just threw it all in the landfill. Gilda, who was now pretending to feed Peggy, watched her as Idima struggled to fold up the pizza box. There was one slice left. She saw Idima think about keeping it, think about the smell in the fridge, and decide the bin was probably best. Thos, in turn, watched his sister surreptitiously. If she was feeding Peggy, she was okay. Whatever story she had made up just now, had seemed to keep Peggy very much on the ground...which was good. Other than his sister, only he knew why she had chosen to call her pony Peggy; how Peggy could spread her magical wings and fly when danger approached. It was, after all, he who had drawn patterns in the stars; explaining how thousands of years ago children just like her would play join the dots with suns so great and yet so very old and far away; imagining Medusa's terrible stare, Orion drawing his bow, Perseus fleeing the terrible Kraken. Pegasus, the winged horse that had saved Perseus from danger in those same tales, with those same stars, now alive in a small plastic toy. In that precious, cherished book, Thos had learned those stories had also shown him where to find those stars - stars that were his night-time escape. It still lay by his bed. For night was when he felt most afraid: a small boy listening to his mother's cries. Knowing he couldn't help her. Knowing it would be his turn soon and yet not caring, if it saved his sister those blows that rained down so hard and so frequent that they permanently damaged his hearing. His sister had been spared the worst of the beatings that to her seemed so normal. But they weren't afraid now. And Peggy was just a dancing horse, happily feeding from his sister's hand.

Idima took the bags - mostly carrier bags because it seemed waste of money to buy something specifically designed to be thrown away - outside to the waste chute. They fell into the smelly darkness and she heard them thud onto the pile of other people's rubbish below.

She stood for a moment, trying to breathe after the trauma of the past few weeks. It felt as if this was the first time she had come up for air. Turning back, she walked the ten-or-so steps to the front door of the flat and looked out into the night. If she squinted, she could just make out the top of the "gherkin" - her favourite building on the London skyline. Although now it was partly obscured by a low, mucky haze: on the breeze the sounds of traffic and cheap fireworks reminded her that there were other, happier, more normal lives out there.

The slow blink of the city lights beat time. The song of a living, dying city. A tune drifting into her head, lulling, old; words she couldn't understand. Sails hung limp, salt on the air, the creak of wood. The windmill looked...lonely. Standing there defying the wind. She felt as if, for a moment, they were one. Maybe she stood there too long because she shivered. No wonder, she thought, standing out here in the late October night.
*

PIGEON ATTACKS

2009-03-22T08:53:00.002Z

I think it's time someone stood up and told the truth about pigeons. They are everywhere, watching us with their beady little orange eye. Only one eye works - the other one is a transmitter. They send the signal back to Pigeon Central where the images get processed and used to build a map before the main invasion.

And did you know that the polar ice cap is only disappearing because the pigeons keep pecking at it. They want us out of the way. WHY AREN'T THE GOVERNMENT TELLING US THE TRUTH? THERE'S NO WAY TO DEFEAT THEM.

Just you wait.

MOLDOVAN FASHION WEEK

2009-03-21T18:52:00.004Z

What do you think? I took my inspiration form the Moldovan wedding in Dynasty, but Juanita said it looks like I'm going to a christening.

Sometimes I wonder if it isn't time to start seeing less of Juanita. But then I run out of hash and she's the only cat I know that's got any.

WASHING THE CAT

2009-03-21T13:51:00.002Z

This is the last monkey, Jose, washing Juanita. Juanita tells me she hated Jose, but what can you do...at least he kept her clean.

ALIEN ENCOUNTERS

2009-03-19T21:18:00.004Z

I have to thank my friend Alien Spouse. She told me how to twitter. It's been a good day today. I think I might ask Juanita over for a Pina Colada and some bananas.

THE WINDMILL: MOVING DAY

2009-03-18T21:12:00.006Z

Moving Day

Idima Van Moost and her two children moved into Saltash Court on the kind of grey morning that results from a single stroke of wash from an uninspired watercolourist. A fine drizzle swirled as if the rain couldn't bear to reach the ground and they turned right into Jebb Avenue to glimpse their new home. Because the street shares an access road with a prison, they had to wait for a barrier to be raised before they could get to the flats. Saltash Court is one of two red-brick four-story apartment blocks just off Brixton Hill - the part of South London where you live if you can't afford nearby Clapham. Uphill a few hundred yards, Brixton becomes Streatham and further down towards the Edwardian Baroque Town Hall turn the sails of Ashby's Windmill. At least, they used to. The mill is boarded up now, though that didn't dampen the excitement in soon-to-be-six-years-old Gilda. Idima herself didn't much care for windmills; she thought they were sinister and certainly couldn't fathom what one would be doing in the middle of a South London housing estate.

They had ridden by Black Cab - paid for by The Trust. The bus would have been fine. Most of their possessions were jammed into two boxes. The driver helped them as far as the bottom of the stairwell and took his money perfunctorily.

Three floors up, The Green Day Trust had furnished them with a flat-pack table, four almost matching chairs, a lumpy sofa-bed and funny smelling fridge. The resettlement officer explained about the oven, how it had a tendency to cremate things; that the grill didn't work. It was going to be fixed though. There was a view of the windmill from one window, and of Brixton prison from the other two. The fourth didn't have a view as such because it was painted out. It didn't matter. To Idima it was a palace. Because here there was no-one to hit her. An old fridge wouldn't bruise her with its fists - wouldn't drink a bottle of vodka before dislocating her jaw and stamping so hard on her belly that she lost her unborn baby. So if the oven burned a few chips, then that was fine.

“Mummy.”

The voice pricked the skin of a memory: A little girl looked up at her, holding out a hand. Huge almond eyes blinked.

Idima spoke softly. "What's this?"

The answer came silently as her daughter's hand opened and a paper tissue flowered from its tiny, fingered bud. Idima frowned, but a corner of her mouth warmed into a smile.

"It’s okay. Mummy's not sad any more". There was lift - the beginning of belief in Idima's voice.

"Call me if you need anything". The officer handed her a card and walked to the door. No sooner had she gone, than her daughter spoke excitedly.

"Can we go and see the buses?"

This was one of Gilda's favourite games. The two of them would stand, waiting for the buses, guessing which number would come next. Gilda always won. Idima called it her "gift". Just like her grandmother back in Nigeria, who saw the future in dreams; who knew that Idima would move to London: be mother to a boy and a girl. She missed her own mother terribly. What would she say now, if she could see what had become of her wandering child?

She was still thinking about her mother when she saw Gilda put her finger in her mouth. "Is it still wobbly?"

Gilda nodded, pulling her tooth back and forth. A shock of frizzy, wild hair nodded with her.

"Don't worry. When it comes out, you can put it under your pillow and then the tooth fairy will come and take it and give you a pound."

"Olivia gets two pound fifty".

"Well, Olivia must have gold teeth. Now come here and let me brush your hair".

Gilda looked cross...and highly suspicious.

"Where does the tooth fairy live?"

"Clapham".

Gilda had never heard of Clapham, Nor did she think it sounded like somewhere a fairy would live. Idima took a beaded band and began to comb Gilda's hair.

"Do you want me to plait it? We can do Pocahontas..."

Gilda shook her head. She wasn't going to let the subject drop.

"What does the tooth fairy do with all the teeth?"

Idima thought hard.

"He sells them on ebay".

Gilda whined, cross but suppressing giggles. She suspected Idima was making it up.

"He doesn't".

"Yes he does. And then he uses the money to buy sweets".

"Don't!"

"Not don't...doesn't."

Gilda was giggling uncontrollably.

"That's silly."

"No it's not."

"Why doesn't he just keep them?"

"Because he hasn't got anything to keep them in."

"What about in his mouth?"

Idima laughed and shook her head. "It got sewed up".

Gilda looked even more perplexed. "Why?"

"Because he asked his mummy too many questions."

Gilda huffed. How many conversations had ended this way? Idima laughed and stroked her daughter's hair.

"You know how much I love you?"

Gilda shrugged.

"I love you more than all the teeth in the world".

She shrugged again.

"Even when you sulk. You're my sulky little Angel."

Gilda's lip quivered and she stamped her foot. She was trying so hard not to smile. She folded her arms and threw herself down on the bed, hiding her face from her mother.

"Now. Where's your brother?"

She kissed Gilda's head and stood up. Walking into the kitchen, she could see Thos hard at work, assembling their new table. Typically, he had dispensed with the accompanying diagram which was now peering out from the top of the bin.

"Why don't you ever follow the instructions?"

"Because they're for r-e-t-a-r-d-s".

The reply was signed and the last word spelled out a letter at a time to punctuate it. And because there was no sign language for retards. Idima could sign but rarely did, partly because Thos was so much better at it, and partly because she wanted him to develop some speech, even if it was difficult and held up other aspects of his development.

"Don't use that word".

"Why not, it's true".

"Because I taught you better."

Thos rolled his eyes, and stood back, admiring his handiwork. He signed sarcastically.

"T-a-b-l-e."

Idima smiled and signed back "A-r-s-e."

He pretended to look shocked at hearing his mother swear.

They both smiled, and without thinking, Idima put a hand on her son's shoulder. This was too sudden. Thos flinched and she felt the first pang of guilt since she'd arrived. She backed off.

"It's going to get better." She said, before turning away. "I promise."

Thos didn't look up. She had gone too far.

*

THE WINDMILL

2009-03-17T21:06:00.003Z

"Fee Fye Fo Fum
I smell the blood and the English come
Be thee alive or be thee dead
I'll grind thy bones to bake my bread"

I decided I should start putting my short story "out there" so another year doesn't go by without me actually doing something creative....it's a dark tale about a windmill that I walk past on my way to the bus stop, in the middle of Brixton, South London. And yes, it really is there.

Prologue

It was seven forty am by the time the first fire engine arrived. Even now the remains of night pressed heavy on the Brixton sky, mocking the sun's impudent return from purgatory; a palsy raging at the tattered dawn. Ribs, the fractured shards of dreams seemed to fall away as pulsing blue lights, not the waking Venus, restarted the city's heartbeat.

For a moment, it seemed as if seven million souls gasped.

And then it began. Blood rushed back into the arteries of the roads, bridges groaned, signals on the metropolitan lines blinked and failed; in Kennington, kettles emptied as water boiled and tea brewed. In street and crescent televisions jumped from standby to life; a life of Indian floods and collapsing FTSEs and yesterday's tennis. Somewhere, a mother woke her children with a kiss. But not here. Here, police were struggling to erect a screen. Here, a mother's arteries spilled. Here, wood groaned and limbs creaked and eyes failed as above them helicopters circled like vultures over a cadaver who hung smeared with blood, split with hate, splintered with wood. Here a windmill, thrust up through the earth like a giant fist, turning it's kill like meat on a spit. From 50 metres away you would struggle to make her out, crucified upon the sails. Thick fog shrouded the blackened mill. But even nature was ashamed as people drew closer....closer you could see the horror. The theory went that you were supposed to protect a murder scene, not just to preserve it but to save mankind from seeing the gruesome reality of its fate. But nobody here had seen a body half way up in the air before. Through the fog, she was almost floating. Like a terrible angel. It was a hopeless scene. Not one officer, in all their years of policing London's grim Inner City, had seen anything quite like this, and now they couldn't look away. It fascinated them. The sails seemed to toss her like a helpless fish consumed by a hungry gull.

*

A SERIOUS BREACH OF TRUST

2009-03-17T10:46:00.002Z

I went out with my friends last night.

I am almost certain that one of them put some sort of drug in my third bottle of wine.

Because I feel awful today, and can barely remember how I got home.

EUROVISION

2009-03-15T22:12:00.003Z

Following our discovery that the rollmops are finished, we have decided to expand our Swedish evening into other parts of Europe. I found some Tsatsiki in the fridge and Pablo is making a Paella. It makes me wonder whether Hitler had basically just run out of Strudel in 1939 and what followed was simply some sort of misunderstanding.

SWEDISH EVENING

2009-03-15T20:13:00.005Z

I'm watching this with Pablo. We just opened a tin of rollmops and we're wearing our A-ha t-shirts (we're going to have a Scandinavian evening). The video isn't really anything to do with Sweden or Norway but it's better than watching a video about krayfish or the high suicide rates.

THE POSTMAN COMETH

2009-03-15T17:16:00.005Z

I took 52 photos today on my new camera. It's the first time I've taken it out and I was just playing about to see how it works. Of all the beautiful things I saw, the most beautiful of all was this building site.

There's something quite contrapuntal about construction work in amongst the order of an area like Canary Wharf. Maybe life's beauty is simply in what it promises. I suppose that's why people have affairs with Postmen.

THE FLIGHT OF THE SUN

2009-03-15T09:42:00.005Z

Inside the dark beating hearth
I gaze
A fireplace soot with stars
Curving suns
Spiralling zephyrs
A pulse
Inside the hearth beating dark

Pablo wrote that. Well, so he claims. There's this little room just off the corridor - it is, according to him, full of other monkeys who only come out when I go to sleep. There's a typewriter in there and they all just jump about on the keys.

One time they got almost right to the end of "Toilets And Cressida".

Apparently they can only write smut.

HOLLYWOOD HATES FAT ACTRESSES

2009-03-14T21:38:00.002Z

This clip is a classic example of how Hollywood persecutes fat people.

I would go on for ages about how Kirstie Alley has done nothing to challenge this stereotype, but Pablo has just urinated in my Yukka.

SOMEONE ELSE'S STORY

2009-03-14T21:21:00.001Z

Pablo loves this.

He's such a sentimental monkey. But I do like it as well.

THE MALE SATIN BOWER BIRD

2009-03-14T19:12:00.004Z

I've just had a huge argument with Pablo. I told him that I'd heard about a bird that collects blue things and then builds a little gallery to display them.

So here, Pablo, despite your assertion that I am just making up this bird to make my own collection of blue things seem less gay, is pictorial evidence of the prefabulous Male Satin Bower Bird.

Now stop touching yourself and go eat your vittles.

FAVOURITE HORRIFIC FIGURE SKATING ACCIDENTS

2009-03-14T19:04:00.003Z

You see! I said Ice Skating was dangerous.

SCARFGATE

2009-03-14T17:40:00.001Z

When I got home, my Ferragamo scarf had been moved.

And there are scratches on the top of the armoir.

It's only a replica, but that's hardly the point. He doesn't know that.

ME & MY MONKEY

2009-03-14T17:24:00.005Z

I suppose out there, somewhere in the universe, someone is reading this. Please let it be you. Because only you can help. Help me get free - or at very least push some bananas through the bars!

I'm trapped, you see. Not physically of course...Niall's not strong enough to tie me up. His fingers are nimble and quick, but they can't tie knots. That's not to say that they can't do a million other mischiefs, but that's another tale for another time.

No, Niall is my jailer in other, more terrifying ways. He monopulates my feelings, throws terrifying orangutantrums if I dare to venture outside, and poos in my vases.

I'm frightened to go out. And when I do, I'm terrified by what's waiting when I return.

I came home today to a ruined louis XV armoir. I'll never be able to repair it.

Je suis en totale despaire.....