That’s me dead. At least, I should be dead – there’s a heck of a lot of blood gushing from my guts. Or from the gaping wound which used to be my guts. It’s funny, isn’t it, you think some dread disease’ll carry you off, or you’ll be bored to death by Saturday night telly,… Continue reading That’s Me Dead
A short poem for Mother’s Day. I hope your mother never spoke to you like mine did to me. We all deserve love.
A limerick about a chickpea.
Doreen’s invited work friends to her first birthday celebration for many years. She’s got everything ready, and she’s excited.