One of the wonderful young writers in my school writing group is currently working on his first collection – entitled “Grim Little Things”, I loved the title so much that I’ve stolen it.
Snail slime tracking across the pillow, heading not towards the window sill and away, but downwards, towards the tangle of duvet and sheets.
That moment, with eyes still half closed, you swing your feet out of bed and your toes find…..something wet, soft and still just slightly warm.
Sniffing milk to test for fresheness, the almost solididty of turn, throat gagging on smell alone.
The crowded bus, the man too close, stale sweat imperfectly masked by cheap deoderant, his [ at least to you] unwelcome erection jabs against your hip at every speeed bump.
The way a colleague chews her lunch, mouth open, a whale seeking crill and all the time you cannot tear your eyes away, mastication and conversation.
A used dressing, plaster, still damp, sticky, viscous and dropped by some stranger into your wheelie bin.
A lipstick left, inadvertently, to melt on a sunny window sill.
A bloodied thumb print, just the one, off centre on a downstairs light switch.
Chickens, necks yellowed, hanging by their greying feet in the make shift Halal butchers storefront
A toenail, blackened, hanging by a single thread, walking, you feel it move, shift under woollen socks, but fear the final loss, the display of pink unready flesh.
The smell of spilt milk in a warm car.
Coppers sticky from over handling pressed into your hand in part payment for 10 cut price cigarettes.
A windscreen splattered, flying dead and the noise the wipers make removing the crispy bits.
Under-cooked quiche, onion floating in a thin soup of egginess.
A pug, eyes a popping, pink onesie and a matching pink collar, cute is so subjective.
Knuckles cracking, slow, deliberate, preparation and then the silence.
That Nokia ring tone
Da da da ..dadad da….dada da da.
Any brown envelope with any Government dept stamp.
Cells mutating under a microscope.
My ageing neck.
And on and on and on and on…….