Harry is ten years old. Every day he wishes he could earn money and buy food. Perhaps then his Mum, Mel, wouldn’t be so sad; she always tries to be cheerful but he hears her crying every night. During term time Harry eats at school but, in the ‘hungry holidays’ they use the St Giles’ church food bank; it’s that or starve.
Continue readingJosh is a failed screenwriter in California and he’s broke; it’s tough and the last weeks have been even tougher. At forty-two he didn’t expect a DVT in both legs. Nor had he planned to lie that his mother was dying to persuade British Airways to carry him back to England for her last Christmas.
Continue readingRoberto is flummoxed by what to buy his wife, Angelina de Castiglione, for Christmas, a decision made more important by the fact that she is also his employer. His dilemma is complicated, as usual, by his fear of being caught in his serial infidelities and losing his position. Naively, he believes overwhelmingly extravagant presents will convince her of his undying devotion. The best, or worst, example of his stupidity was the Triumph Herald, wrapped in a huge pink bow. Her reaction confirmed his mistake: If I want to go anywhere you drive me there, and why on earth would I want to travel in a toy car? He excused himself by thinking, No one knows how hard it is being married to a bossy old cow; no wonder I need a bit on the side.
Continue readingMonsignori Abbatelli, sixty-seven, enjoys his honorific title bestowed by the Holy Father for his lifelong service he gives pilgrims to Rome and the poor. His sense of importance is shown by an immaculate tailored black suit, black braces, black shirt, clerical collar and patent leather black shoes. He carries a magnificent dark brown leather briefcase embossed with his title and name and wears a superb black Borsalino hat. But in the end, he believes his demeanour does the trick, as he struts like his idol, Marcello Mastroianni.
Continue readingHer studio is a place of alchemy. The room is large, the corniced ceiling high, the windows tall and the light benign. There are grand glass fronted cupboards containing the skulls of birds, rabbits, a long-horned chamois, a stuffed cockatoo, an enormous star fish, a conch, fossils, the hip bone of an ass, the jaw bone of a Scottish Blackface sheep and the skeletal head of a peacock as well as a black and white photograph of Lucien Freud shaving. She removes the peacock’s head.
Continue readingIt is 1955. The chunky triangular metal control knob of the electric washing machine is of grey ribbed metal. It has three positions: on, spin, off. The machine, Thor, is statuesque with the graceful presence reminiscent of a First World War tank.
Continue readingOn Ogmore beach the sea is calm, the wind is still and all is at peace. It is the 17th of August 1950. In North Korea the last of thirty-nine American prisoners of war are executed on Hill 303.
Roger, aged six, is with his parents, Martin and Janet. Summer sun shines as he stands on a sandy path holding a metal Mickey Mouse bucket in his hand. He wears a short-sleeved shirt, short trousers, white ankle length socks and buckled sandals.
Continue readingI am thirteen and standing on a narrow old bridge as flames flicker from burning braziers. I watch glittering flakes of ash, pages of burning books, tumbling slowly out of a darkening sky. A gentle breeze shifts them hither and thither. Their beauty is both fragile, ephemeral and somehow threatening.
Continue readingJeffrey, an elderly potter of some distinction, has been invited to attend a conference – ‘Crossing Borders: The Arts & Human Rights’ – where he is to deliver a presentation: ‘Agitprop ceramics: El Lissistsky to Grayson Perry’.
Continue readingIt’s 1954. Simon, aged eight, stands on the front door step of his house, about to walk to school. His mother, Rachel, holds a large glass jar of brown and white peppermint sweets. On the jar there’s a picture of a grinning boy, his cheeks bulging with sweets. Rachel takes a mint from the jar, unwraps the cellophane wrapper, and pops it into Simon’s mouth saying, It’ll keep you warm on the way to school. They both laugh at this nonsense, but – in a sense – it does just that: her love keeps him warm.
Continue reading
Phil Cosker 