Illiterarty.com Book reviews and blogs by Bridget

When the wind blows at night, sweeping the rocks and gently directing the salty spray of the sea, I can't sleep.

I feel like a spaceman at altitude; maybe - I've never been one so I don't know.

My art space is a smooth, flat, white space with a dent right in the middle, where, in a fit of pique, someone may have rammed their fist.

I’m going to leave now.

The snow is uneven, slushy, glinting murkily in the tailights of the traffic that lumbers past like shiny red-bottomed elephants on skates and fades into the dark night.

I creep around the strange room, slowly, painstakingly, like a murderer.

Through the dark streets they carouse and slide and caper and slither and creep, metamorphising in each streetlight, snatches of snickering song bouncing off the pavements and bitumen and concrete and glass.

Wearing a mask and reeking of gin, the old sailor rolls crocodile tears down his face over the real tattooed ones.