parts no more.
Soon as it was over I got myself ready to leave.
Ma though, she weren’t having any. She was off down those steps waving her stick, making sure she got to him first.
Couldn’t remember the last time she’d moved so quick.
Mounted the stage like an athlete.
Straight over to him she went, pointing and shouting.
Might have been easier to understand if she’d been wearing her teeth.
She jabbed her arm out suddenly, real impolite.
Johnny Cupcake didn’t even flinch.
Took the pen she waved.
Signed everything she put in front of him.
Sea Minor
from Dirty Old Town (and other stories)
Mum always speaks in Gaelic when we come up to Skye. She speaks in Gaelic because that’s what Gran likes to use in the house. I can’t join in when they’re talking, but I understand some of the things they say. Mum thinks that I might go to school here soon and they’ll teach me, only I want to stay at my other school with my friends.
Skye’s an island so you have to go over a bridge to get there. Davy told me it was a troll bridge and that some people didn’t want to pay, but I said I would because you wouldn’t want to make them angry like in Billy Goat’s Gruff.
It’s always dark when we arrive. When we step out of the car we can see how this place gets its name; all you can see for miles and miles are millions of shining stars. Maybe they put an ‘e’ on the end it’s so stretched out. In London the heavens seems so small. There are always buildings in the way.
This time the journey had been awful. We packed in more than usual because Mum thought we might stay longer. I got wedged up against suitcases and dresses and stuff. Davy was fine though; he got to sit in the front where Dad usually went because Dad wasn’t coming this time.
And we didn’t get to play any of our usual games like I-Spy or making words from registration plates.
Davy said that Dad always had a map in case we got lost. Mum told him that she didn’t need maps; she was a human compass. Then she didn’t say anything for the rest of the journey.
*
Lots of things are different here. Some are better and some aren’t. It’s wonderful wandering around in fields and woods, but it’s not so much fun walking to the shops and back, especially the back part. I love swimming in the sea and paddling, but I’m not so keen on taking a bath in the old tin thing we fill with buckets. I love the way Gran gets us quiet for the weather forecast every evening, but I miss the television and my computer.
It was even more different when Mum was young. There wasn’t a road, the toilet was outside, the washing was done by hand, things like that. Mum said that the only things that hadn’t changed were Gran’s tabard and the weather.
Whatever time we get up Gran’s always ready with a pan or two frying. We have a big cooked breakfast “to keep the wind out,” Gran says, and we go out and explore. When we get back we wash our hands and by the time we get into to the kitchen there’s a plate of fresh scones on the table and a jug of milk from Nancy the cow, all warm and creamy.
We explore a bit more and it’s lunch, then dinner, then supper for the weather forecast, and in the evenings we listen to stories. I think some of them are true because they have real people in them and some are made up because they’ve got fairies and giants in them.
***
Mum’s the best storyteller though. Perhaps that’s because she reads so much. She was reading when we were down by the sea last week - ‘A Perfect Day For Banana Fish’. She’s been reading that lots recently; it must be her favourite.
Thinking about banana fish makes me laugh because I start to think of other fish: orange, grapefruit, kiwi, potato… Maybe there’s a pineapple shark out there too. The one I like best of all is the onion fish. It’s always crying,
Soon as it was over I got myself ready to leave.
Ma though, she weren’t having any. She was off down those steps waving her stick, making sure she got to him first.
Couldn’t remember the last time she’d moved so quick.
Mounted the stage like an athlete.
Straight over to him she went, pointing and shouting.
Might have been easier to understand if she’d been wearing her teeth.
She jabbed her arm out suddenly, real impolite.
Johnny Cupcake didn’t even flinch.
Took the pen she waved.
Signed everything she put in front of him.
Sea Minor
from Dirty Old Town (and other stories)
Mum always speaks in Gaelic when we come up to Skye. She speaks in Gaelic because that’s what Gran likes to use in the house. I can’t join in when they’re talking, but I understand some of the things they say. Mum thinks that I might go to school here soon and they’ll teach me, only I want to stay at my other school with my friends.
Skye’s an island so you have to go over a bridge to get there. Davy told me it was a troll bridge and that some people didn’t want to pay, but I said I would because you wouldn’t want to make them angry like in Billy Goat’s Gruff.
It’s always dark when we arrive. When we step out of the car we can see how this place gets its name; all you can see for miles and miles are millions of shining stars. Maybe they put an ‘e’ on the end it’s so stretched out. In London the heavens seems so small. There are always buildings in the way.
This time the journey had been awful. We packed in more than usual because Mum thought we might stay longer. I got wedged up against suitcases and dresses and stuff. Davy was fine though; he got to sit in the front where Dad usually went because Dad wasn’t coming this time.
And we didn’t get to play any of our usual games like I-Spy or making words from registration plates.
Davy said that Dad always had a map in case we got lost. Mum told him that she didn’t need maps; she was a human compass. Then she didn’t say anything for the rest of the journey.
*
Lots of things are different here. Some are better and some aren’t. It’s wonderful wandering around in fields and woods, but it’s not so much fun walking to the shops and back, especially the back part. I love swimming in the sea and paddling, but I’m not so keen on taking a bath in the old tin thing we fill with buckets. I love the way Gran gets us quiet for the weather forecast every evening, but I miss the television and my computer.
It was even more different when Mum was young. There wasn’t a road, the toilet was outside, the washing was done by hand, things like that. Mum said that the only things that hadn’t changed were Gran’s tabard and the weather.
Whatever time we get up Gran’s always ready with a pan or two frying. We have a big cooked breakfast “to keep the wind out,” Gran says, and we go out and explore. When we get back we wash our hands and by the time we get into to the kitchen there’s a plate of fresh scones on the table and a jug of milk from Nancy the cow, all warm and creamy.
We explore a bit more and it’s lunch, then dinner, then supper for the weather forecast, and in the evenings we listen to stories. I think some of them are true because they have real people in them and some are made up because they’ve got fairies and giants in them.
***
Mum’s the best storyteller though. Perhaps that’s because she reads so much. She was reading when we were down by the sea last week - ‘A Perfect Day For Banana Fish’. She’s been reading that lots recently; it must be her favourite.
Thinking about banana fish makes me laugh because I start to think of other fish: orange, grapefruit, kiwi, potato… Maybe there’s a pineapple shark out there too. The one I like best of all is the onion fish. It’s always crying,
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