It wasn’t that she necessarily missed wine; the coursing of red and white courage poising through her blood stream, making waves of excited energy or smoothing her out like a saxophone player with three day growth and a cheeky grin.

No. She’d hardly thought about it all really.


Infinity And Beyond

Her thoughts went dark: to a place that bared no window. There was no air to provide her food for thought: she was settled. Into a dust that had fought a storm, a dust that rested on a ground of lost adventures. She was done. She was defeated. Arms splayed for forsakenness, she had to remind herself of her needing: who would call her name as she turned to sand? Who would cup her into a vase and carry her across the desert to a cool salvation? Who would hold her, until her true end?

Only time.

Only time could hold her.

Spilt Milk

Maybe he scribbles on his arms because mummy and daddy are covered in scribble. Maybe he does it because it tickles as the tips run along his soft, bare skin. Maybe, just maybe, he does it because he keeps being told to draw on paper, and paper is just a flat, boring surface that doesn’t tickle and doesn’t look like mummy and daddy. Either way, it’s a step up from drawing on all the walls.

I can think of far worse things to trouble myself over.

For example, flies in my wine.



She never woke with the same enthusiasm as when she went to bed.

Her thoughts never brightened as they did when she rest her head.

She never bounced emphatically in the morning sun,

As she had the night before when she said she’d have just one.

She never woke and wondered how to make the day last longer,

But just the night before she’d been begging for something stronger.

She often woke a little hazy, feeling lazy and washed out,

All things considered the night before she kept doing the twist and shout.

She thought the mornings too sunny but enjoyed her nights so bright,

Often asking, were the wines on her side or did they get into a fight?

She took a wild guess as she traipsed through the masses,

Of empty bottles, ashtrays, dirty and broken glasses.

She realised now, as the fridge lay bare,

Pale skin and tussled hair,

She might be getting old, going soft,

So she called in sick to sleep her hangover off.



Maybe tomorrow

She stumbled upon her truth: falling forward and spilling her wine. Unsure at first what it was, what dare trip her up while she toddled through the house dreaming into gulps. Her eyes scanned the room at the piles of clothes and the scattered toys, the buzzing dishes and the dusty exercise bike until her gaze met her feet and there it was:

Her truth:

Her procrastination.

She’d need more wine.

Wine Challenge

She kept watching the clock. Every lost minute was a lost grape. Licking her lips she imagined what the first sip might be like, the tingles that would warm her ankles. The clock still showed a vast majority of sobriety left in the day and her child challenged each minute in his defiance of good behaviour. He was provoking her spirit. Little did he know he was going to be put to bed two hours earlier than usual and the first glass would be in salute of her sneaky victory.

She would have the last laugh.