Moreish

January 28, 2017 at 11:50 am | Posted in Uncategorized | 6 Comments
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cook-and-more

Swipe right?

One of my least satisfying copywriting clients was my father.

He craved female beauty, company and utility.

Especially after my mother’s death.

In his mid-70s, he asked me to write a personal ad for the local rag.

I wasn’t keen, as I knew that the brief, product, market and customer would be difficult – if not impossible.

Then again, as he’d refused to read any of my fiction, I was curious to see what it would look like.

He wanted a woman who was much slimmer, younger, better dressed and more attractive than he.

She had to be sufficiently educated to appreciate and applaud (but neither exceed nor challenge) his gargantuan knowledge and wit.

She also needed a specific sense of humour.

His.

To convey this mandatory criterion, he insisted the ad include the line:

‘Must love Cook and Moore.’

By this he meant the comedy duo of which he was a fan.

I tried to explain that such a rigorous standard could severely curtail replies, but he was adamant.

And so the ad ran.

On my next visit, I asked how he’d fared.

He said that only one female – ‘of limited intellect and heavy Eastern European extraction’ – had phoned with a riposte:

‘I am cook.

What is “more”?’


This blog runs on (instant) coffee.

Any sum appertaining thereto would be much appreciated and long recalled.


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Down to the wire

May 9, 2015 at 10:35 am | Posted in Uncategorized | 2 Comments
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Today I woke to find my silver hair had turned to wire.

Gone the soft flax of youth.

The dank lanks of adolescence.

The mousey locks of adulthood.

This is different.

Distinguished banker?

Not quite.

Grizzled marine?

Never.

Snow-topped professor?

Alas, no.

All I have is grey wire.

Spools of the stuff.

They don’t even use it.

Something about colour-blind electricians, I think.

So why do I have a headful?

Is one strand from the pacemaker my dad refused?

Does another belong to the bodgy mike of the priest who buried him?

Has the universe deduced, from 18 months of gritted teeth, that I sorely need my jaw sewn shut?

Or has Fate taken one long fibre

and tempered it into Samurai steel?

I think so.

Why?

To craft the sharpest needle,

to draw all pain from my dear, dying doggie and

to plunge it in my

heart.

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