About

Me? 

Writer of small stories. Observer of life. Deep thinker and shallow dresser. Recovering foreigner.
Dislike cold and love sunshine. Keep working on my craft, keep trying to be less weird. One more successfully than the other.
Compulsive crab tendencies. Embarrassing OCD moments. Cracked skin and self esteem.
Ever hopeful.

My family?

Three cats and ghosts of pets past. Plus assorted human relatives.

Location?

Weird house in the countryside just outside Cambridge. UK, not Massachusetts.

Why should you read on?

Because if you find the story that feels just right, it will be like you are 5 years old again and your mother had tucked you in ready for sleep, but not before she told you one more story and it turned out to be the best story you ever  heard and you fell asleep not quite believing your luck.

Yes, I am very modest like that.

Where do I complain? 

The best thing to do is go outside the town, (any town will do, it doesn't have to be the one where you live), find a big field and dig a huge big hole right in the middle of that field. What you do then, is you shout all your complaints into that hole - shout it real loud, and then you quickly fill the hole up with all that earth you'd  dug up. The earth will be all fluffy from shoveling and you'll probably have some left over that won't fit back in the hole. You take this left over earth and you scatter it around your hole thinly, so it makes it look like a much larger patch of ground had been dug up.

Then you go home and forget all about it.

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