In the absence of anything positive to put forward in the way of policies, suggestions, or even pleasantries about the weather, Kezia Dugdale has decided that the way to restore the fortunes of the Labour party in Scotland is to insult all the people who used to vote Labour but don’t any more. That’s folk like me, and quite possibly you. According to Kezia we are “robots that are given a chip and told what to think”. Kezia knows a lot about chips, what with Labour’s definition of well balanced being to have a chip on both shoulders. Or in the case of certain Labour MSPs, a rancid sausage supper drenched in bitter sauce. It does not compute.
Driven to distraction by her weekly drubbing from the Hive Queen in high heels, there’s nothing left for the branch manager of Labour in Scotland except insults. By giving up on the…
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In amongst the flotsam of our lives, rooftops were starting to reappear – the once raging flood waters had begun their silent retreat. The twisted spire of San Mira now rose defiant and proud from the shimmering depths; inch by inch, yard by yard, devastation and despair was revealed.
The bruise on her neck was still tender. But nobody asked any questions – she’d become adept at covering up for his mistakes.
Gaius unloaded the last of their possessions from the cart. The dust and sweat of a summer’s day in Campania coated his once white tunic.
Night security stared intently at his screen. The Packers had a 3rd and goal with time expiring. Their entire season was all on this play, as was his next month’s rent cheque. On a bank of monitors across the office, only the watching eye of the CCTV camera noticed as a green Ford Mustang reversed up to the trash cans.
As kids we often climbed to the top of Kinney Hill. From there we could see the whole world. Africa, Australia, America, even China, on a really clear day, shimmered mystically on the summer horizon. We had plans to visit them all – to see the world. Sadly, those times of innocence and wonder have long faded to memory. Most of my friends from those days settled down to an ordinary life. An expected, safe existence in the town within which they were born and raised. Me? I decided to see if I could actually seek out these places: those distant lands only those brave and hardy enough to climb the scree scarred slopes of Kinney Hill could usually hope to see.
Every fall they’d come. Down by the bend in the river, across from Franklin’s farm. Young or old, we all looked forward to their arrival.
Marion looked down from the attic window. This was usually her favourite time of the year: that time when the leaves on the trees surrounding their white, timber house turned slowly from green to subtle peach-red. The dry, summer heat had always bothered Marion since moving south – she’d never really taken to it. The turn to Autumn brought with it a coolness which made her feel more comfortable and content. This year though was different.