The Black Knight is not a quitter. It says so on his family coat of arms, 'Never Give Up' it says, in Latin, 'NUNQUAM CEDE' and he is damned if he is going to let the side down. It is true, he's legless and armless, but finished?  He disagrees.


  She crawls in through the bathroom window, her parkour skills are finely honed. All she has to do is slip out of her jumpsuit into her cocktail dress and she's ready to party. 'Hey, babe, fancy threads. You look like a spy.' Oh, shit, she thinks, my date, 'Let's pretend.'


  She was sitting on the train when she heard it, the 6.30 bonecrusher, sardines with slippy hands and leaking earphones right in her face, that tune. Now she couldn't get rid of it, like she'd stepped in dogshit before standing in an elevator. She wanted to scream, what's its name? Panic.


  I've been here all day, for whatever's sake, I wasn't willing to say because then it would be taking sides and then how much business would I lose? No, better stay in the middle ground, do what I  do, even if prices are higher. Who ever heard of being generous?


Stumbling, stepping out of bed, the hotel's by the sea but for a moment, he thinks he's adrift. A day at the races and one more to go, he dresses hurriedly, in the dark, styled by Ray Charles, he imagines. He's chosen best dressed, very stylish, they say. Crazy, he thinks.

Matin March

Photo credit:   He was fond of a peregrination; early morning, up with the birds, a solid breakfast of porridge and fresh blueberries, pot of coffee and wholewheat toast, then ablutions and evacuation in the thunderbox before traipsing off on foot, across hill and dale, ramble and perambulate but never call it hike.


  Jameson was not taking 'no' for an answer. He would run the race, he assured them. The only problem was for the first time in his life, he was stumped. He couldn't run and needed to save face. A radical solution occurred to him. He shot himself in the foot.