Commuting Bafflegab

06/11/2015 at 9:32 am (Uncategorized) (, , )

Occasionally, your journey into work will bring a smile. Today had such moments for me. This is essentially pointless waffle that is possibly doing little more than adding to the already clogged mire of blog posts, but it’s something that just enlivened my morning.

As the Northern Line train to Edgeware emptied, I could finally sit myself down among the other passengers. Across the carriage from me, wearing the shared commuter-neutral face, was a young woman loosely holding a tote-bag that hung above her boots.

Upon this tote bag was the phrase ‘EMOTIONAL BAGGAGE’ in a simple white font, each word emblazoned on its own black rectangle, contrasted against the neutral coloured calico. It struck me as incredibly funny, actually ‘haha’ funny. I even chuckled a little on the train.

Perhaps my reaction was over-the-top to what is, at best, whimsey that barely justifies lifting the corners of the mouth. It was just this impression that she was saying, ‘yes, I bring my emotional baggage. So?’

I wanted to take a photo it, even ask to do so in case she might have thought I was trying to sneak a picture like a drooling, vile, sex pest. But she had her earphones in and it would’ve been weird to ask. And it could well have been one of those instances where she didn’t even think about the message on her bag anymore. Much like when someone points out a badge you forgot you were wearing, or your attention is drawn to a keepsake on your shelf that is new to others, but becomes almost invisible to you.

It made me think abut the phrase ‘emotional baggage’. How it’s used negatively, how getting involved with someone can bring its own shedload of neurosis and complexity. The big joke is that it basically describes all of us. If I meet someone that seems to have no hang ups, no issues, no illogical reasoning to anything at all, I wonder how they avoided mentally getting their hands dirty.

The other thing that made me smile was as I got off the train, amongst the general jostling and steadying of footfalls to the exit, a little girl lost some sort of flyer she was reading. Actually, that’s not the bit that made me smile, that came after.

So, this little girl, perhaps not yet 10 – I don’t really know, terrible at guessing any ages – was talking to her mother about this flyer and a gust of wind from the departing train blew it to the edge of the platform. The girl was crestfallen. I made to fetch it myself, but a lightning fast man with a brolly, man and machine in one, managed to pin the flyer with the tip of the umbrella. He retrieved it heroically. The little girl’s face was one of joy.

If all that morning excellence wasn’t enough, I did have a guilty chuckle at a poor man who went to get on the bus to come up against the immovable focus of a London bus driver. The doors closed upon the denied passenger’s arm and right foot. He extricated his arm, but his foot was still stuck in the door, which he pulled free by employing the most perfectly comedic flapping of arms.

So that was my commute to work. And I’m still smiling.


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A Very Silly Short Story, Just Because.

31/07/2014 at 1:34 pm (Uncategorized)

I awoke with the sensations of a dry mouth and a full bladder. Both were competing for my attention. Fortunately, the glass on the bedside table dealt with one of the issues almost immediately. Giving thanks to my earlier foresight, I heaved my body out of bed to deal with my its other pressing task.

The light in the bathroom forced my eyes shut momentarily as I managed to use the toilet through blurred vision. With a click to turn off the bathroom light, I began to shove myself back into the bedroom.

A sound stopped my progress. A shuffling, snuffling noise to my right caused me to freeze. This noisy intruder was quite clearly in my living room. How they had managed to find a way into my flat was a mystery to me. The mystery deepened as it was clearly not a human sound, but that of an animal.

I pressed on to the living room and turned on the hall light. The block of light that spread into the room illuminated a momentary flicker of activity, which was far too quick for me to make out. It was clear that my eyes had provided further evidence that there was indeed something else in the flat with me.

My heart rate had already quickened before this alarming visual information and reached me. My heart beat harder still. Feeling perspiration break on my neck and forehead, I shivered. My feet were rooted to the spot as my mind battled over the decision to investigate further, or run into my bedroom and hide behind the security of its door.

If I did hide, what then? What would this – whoever or whatever it was – thing do? Cause damage and mess that I’d only need to clear up? Steal from me? It had to go out somehow, but was so unlike an unwelcome wasp, it seemed a futile thought to just let it leave of its own accord.

“Hello?” I spoke with a tremor. The snuffling, breathing and sounds of movement had stopped. It was either as nervous of me as I was of it, or it was waiting in the shadows to attack. I crept forward and moved my hand over the light switch tentatively.

I flicked the switch on and illuminated the whole room. My eyes scanned as much of the living room as quickly and as thoroughly as I could. My muscles tightened as I prepared for a dog or a cat to leap out at me.

There was nothing. Nothing that I could account for the peculiar foraging noises I had heard mere moments before.

Nothing seemed disturbed or upset. No furniture disturbed nor plants upended. However, an incongruity hooked my vision that my brain couldn’t interpret at first.
The edge of something pale. glistening wet, pulsed behind the far side of the sofa. It was only about half a foot off the ground. I was beginning to think it was indeed a dog, albeit a breed I was unfamiliar with.

I moved round to see more of it, but this peculiar edifice seemed to back away instinctively. I moved quickly to catch a better image, which I did, but my brain was unable to process what I was seeing.
My eyes met those of a small friesian cow.
Where my reaction was one of utter confusion, the tiny cow went into a blind frenzy. A black and white blur, it ran around the edge of the room, clumsily bashing into the furniture and knocking the coffee table a few inches to one side. It clattered past me on miniature hooves and out into the hall.

The wooden floor was proving an almost impossible surface for this extraordinary beast to negotiate. It turned awkwardly down the hall, lost its footing and tumbled unceremoniously into the front door on its side.

It lay there, stunned for a moment. I crept slowly over to it, not wishing to alarm this oddity further. Fortunately, it seemed unhurt as it struggled to get up, which it did so successfully.

“Hello,” I said again, trying to install some confidence and friendliness into my voice.

The tiny cow steadied itself on its legs and looked straight at me.

“Hello,” it answered in a softly-spoken, refined woman’s voice.

I realised after a few moments had passed that my face had been reflecting several unvoiced emotions, primarily switching between confusion and smiling.

“I’m sorry to cause you any inconvenience,” the cow said, although I was sure I could detect impatience or disapproval in her voice.

It took me a while for the questions to arrive on my side of the conversation and it was clear the cow was expecting them.

“Who are you?” I asked, losing some of my fleeting confidence.

“My name is Heek. I’ve been sent here to protect you.”

“Heek?” The cow nodded. “Heek. protect me from what? Why did you run like that?”

“Yes, that was terribly unprofessional of me. You’re not supposed to see me. You shouldn’t even know I’m here.”

“Right.” The more answers I heard, the less the situation made sense. “Okay, what are you protecting me from?”

“There are forces, primal, ancient, secreted in the dark. They prey upon… certain people.”

The pause was clearly loaded, and I couldn’t help but burst out, “Certain people? What people? Why me? What do you mean?”

“I will explain, Tom, I will explain.” Heek held up a hoof in what seemed like an attempt at placation.

“You know my name.”

“Of course. You’re my client.”

It was impossible to suppress my laughter at that statement, although I did suppress my comment of ‘that’s so cute.’ While this small cow had become adorable, it didn’t seem proper to condescend her. I felt ridiculous even mulling this over in my head.

“Don’t laugh. I’m here to save your life.” She was quite serious in her tone, which shut me up immediately. “As I was saying, there are… things out there, in the night. Dangerous things. They attack when their prey is at their most vulnerable, often in the hours before the morning. I’ve been assigned to you as you have been earmarked for such an attack.”

“But you’re…” There was no way I could say what I was going to say without seeming insulting.”

“A level two Paranormal Operative, yes.”

“No, I mean you’re a cow. A really little cow.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t do my job, Tom. I’m fully conversant in a wide range of scriptures, incantations and spells. I was in the process of performing an incantation to make a protective shield around your home when you interrupted me.”

“You’re a magic cow!” I blurted, unthinking.

“Yes,” her eyes rolled, “I’m a magic cow.”

Turning her head to one side, Heek whispered, “Did you hear that?” I told her I didn’t. “It’s here.”

Also holding my voice under a whisper, I asked, “What is it?”

“Your killer.”

My blood ran cold. In that instant everything seemed very real. I believed completely that I was in danger. The temperature in the flat dropped leaving me feeling so cold, whereas before my t-shirt and pyjama shorts offered perfectly acceptable cover.

We both looked down the hallway, waiting for the mysterious killer to appear. I began to shake, feeling my joints switch between shuddering themselves loose or locking tightly in place.

On the corner of the hall that led to my bedroom, I noticed a black, smokey tendril snaking its way along the floor. Then another joined it, then another and another. They seemed to work independently of each other. The tips of the insubstantial tentacles rose slightly like a snake tasting the air.

The nervous sweat I’d felt before was nothing compared to the water that was now streaming from my pores, blurring my vision as it gathered over my eyelashes and into my eyes.

I jumped as Heek began to chant, closing her eyes and swaying from side to side.

“Kuranenek habigou starikan,” she spoke, the words seemingly filling the whole flat. “Oosinea fandrebon kooechiten spantachawae.”

The tendrils had now completely turned the corner and were facing us. They were pulling forward a much larger mass, which was becoming more and more exposed as the tendrils inched further.

I began to feel sick, beyond terror and confusion. The incongruity of the tiny cow speaking a strange incantation melted away as I knew that she was probably my only saviour at that moment.

Soon, the full horror of the thing revealed itself. Surrounded by an uncountable, ever-changing collection of writhing grey and black arms was a thick ball made up of the same smoke. I could barely smell it before, but the acrid stench was beginning to crawl into my nose and mouth, stinging my eyes.

Within the body I could see a face, a head within a smokey mass. The features were wizened, blackened and charred. I gagged.

I became aware of Heek’s chant changing. The words had become a constant stream of noise.

“Assamburganotarbenotragettisangobeep.” She repeated the last syllable again.


Over and over she repeated the word ‘beep’. The smoke creature emitted a mournful howl as its tendrils recoiled as if to protect itself.

I looked over my shoulder to Heek. Her eyes flicked open and head butted me in the side and shouted, “Beep!”

I blinked.

Finding myself in near-darkness, I choked and spluttered, instinctively holding my chest. I struggled to breathe and, clawing at my face, realised I had a plastic mask strapped over my mouth and nose.

I could only see distorted silhouettes among flickering orange light. I could hear someone speaking. A woman’s voice.

“S’ok, you’re out of it now. We’re just going to get you to the hospital. You were lucky to get out of that fire.”

Fire? Where was Heek? What was happening? I attempted to speak, but it was muffled and broken because of the mask and my own throat, which felt like parchment.

With a burst of strength, I yanked the mask off. “Magic cow,” was all my brain could manage.

“I’ve been called worse I suppose,” said the woman as I began to realise she was in a green uniform. I was aware of a clunk and with a clatter I was pushed horizontally on a gurney into an ambulance.

“A fire?” I asked, pathetically.

“That’s right,” the woman replied. “Your whole building went up. I’m sorry, this is horrible for you. On the upside, everyone’s okay. Thanks to you.”

“What? I didn’t…”

“Come on now, everyone’s talking about it. You raised the alarm and woke up the whole block. They saw you. You saved everyone. Now you’re going to get a bit of looking after too.”

I remembered none of that. Just the horrible smoke monster and the tiny, magic cow.

“I’m going to give you something for the pain now,” the woman spoke, softly.

My eyesight began to darken, but I swore that, just for a moment, I could see Heek sitting on the end of the gurney, smiling.

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Chapter 2

11/10/2013 at 3:36 pm (Uncategorized)

I got some nice and very constructive feedback when I published Chapter One of this thing the other day. So, for a laugh, here’s Chapter Two.

Chapter Two – The Man On The Goldhawk Road

I got off Goldhawk Road tube station to my appointment. It had been a good week since the Lambeth job. When I’m notified of a new job the procedure is pretty much the same each time.

I received a text message from Will Tagler. In this case, it read:

Goldhawk Road. 12am. One of our accountants. Desperate.

As ever, there’s little more to the message. I waited a moment. My phone vibrated again, and a message arrived with a link to a map. The maps I received were incredibly specific.

I clicked on the map and found my destination, committing it to memory. It’s a skill that’s helped me find my way around London remarkably well.

With the message deleted, I walked past the garage on the main road and along the street. Like so many streets in London, the shops have a rundown necessity about them. Shop signs seem dated although they’re probably not even five years old. As I walked on, the shops thinned out to a long row of Edwardian terraces interspersed by… alder trees? I’m no good with things like that. They bustled in the light wind that eased down the corridor of the street, which carried with it the promise of drizzle.

I reached the house, crafted from handsome red brick. Seven grey steps led up to the white front door, which boasted a stained glass semi-circular window above the frame.

I knocked upon the door. Three firm taps.

I looked about me, assessing more of my surroundings. I often wonder if people realise the plane of the dead is constantly pressing on our world of mundanity. If only they knew spectres walk beside us while we load up the washing machine or take our cars in for MOTs.

There came the sound of footsteps approaching the door. The handle turned and clicked and I was greeted by a man who introduced himself as Graeme Fenchurch.

I introduced myself in return and was subsequently invited in.

“This is a bit, er…” Graeme paused.

“I suppose it is,” I offered, “but don’t worry, this isn’t that unusual.”


“Well, not for me,” I smiled.

He was tired and nervous – something I’ve come to expect. It’s not that I’m a stranger in the home, nor that I’m a stranger that’s come to clear a house of its ghost. It’s about the inescapable reality that I’m the result of admitting it’s real. I come in at the end of a long, exhausting process for most people. They’ve gone through the unease, the dread, the panic, the abject, inescapable fear, until all that’s left is desperation. Fatigue. It takes a strong will to ask for help in those circumstances. For Fenchurch, it could’ve gotten a lot worse.

I could already feel a strong presence within the confines of the house. It’s almost like an opposing magnetic field. It repels, but the urge to push back is irresistible. I don’t share this with Mr Fenchurch. To speak of the haunting factually might help, but right now I don’t want him to think I’m all talk.

I put him at a greying late-thirties, or perhaps a good early-forties. He looked after himself, and I would imagine that he normally takes pride in his appearance. His shirt and jeans looked expensive, but wrinkled, with stains and dusty marks at the cuffs, elbows and knees. Normal for a prolonged exposure to a haunting. With nerves frayed, small, basic tasks seem less important. Sleep may only come rarely, and whenever or wherever you can get it. I have the feeling he might have taken to sleeping in his garage or shed.

We got past the small talk, which primarily revolved around if I wanted a cup of tea or coffee. I always refuse, but never elaborate. If I corner a particularly active spirit, it’s a pain getting Gold Blend out of the Axminster.

He gestured for me to sit in the kitchen, which was spacious and modern. However, the surfaces were marked and stained, and it seemed that every piece of crockery and cutlery were stacked and wedged in and around the sink. Pizza boxes and takeaway cartons were stuffed into the corners around the units. If this was the room in which he’d chosen to entertain, I could only guess at the state of the rest of the house.

“Where’s the ghost?”

His jaw fell. I must’ve had that look on my face that has been referred to as ‘haughty’. Purely unintentional, but I couldn’t help react to his shock.

“Sorry,” he said after a moment, “I wasn’t expecting you to be so direct. I thought it would be a bit more, you know…” He made a spooky ‘ooh’ sound, and I couldn’t help but let out a loud laugh.

He looked crestfallen for a moment, then smirked. The smirk was soon followed by a proper belly laugh and he threw his head back.

“Oh, I’m really sorry…” he said between chuckles, “I haven’t,” as soon as he began to talk again, the tears from his eyes were no longer the result of laughter, but were now indicating sobs.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” he sniffed, grabbing at the kitchen roll on the counter to dab his eyes and blow his nose.

“It’s okay, take your time. You should know that you’re not the only person to feel like this because of a haunting. It takes a lot out of you.”

He stood, and I got the feeling he could have been about to reach out for a hug. I stood too, and turned my back to him.

“Yes, we should probably get on with it.”

“Right, right, yeah.” He sniffed. “It’s in the master bedroom.”

“Your bedroom?”

He murmured an agreement and stepped ahead of me. “This way.”


He guided me up the stairs.  The temperature dropped significantly, indicating the ghost’s need to draw on the energy of its local radius to manifest itself. While I heard nothing at the bottom of the stairs, as I got mid-way up the staircase, I could clearly hear the sound of laboured breathing.

Fenchurch would go no further. “You can wait for me here.” I told him.

The sound from the bedroom could be described as clogged, of a person fighting for breath. It struck me that I was hearing this breathing from behind the closed bedroom door that was partway along the landing, yet at the same time horribly close.

It was the same sensation that I’d sometimes felt when being so incredibly tired, my brain had been unable to accurately process frequencies in music or speech. The phenomenon led to a strange feeling of sound going in and out of ‘focus’. That was happening here, with the wheezing, choking sounds of whatever I was going to find behind the door.

“Have you seen it?” I asked him, hoping I had bolstered my words with sufficient confidence. I’d done this many times, but I still don’t always know what to expect.

“Just a couple of times, but I know it’s in there. It always is.”

“And you can hear that? The breathing?”

“What? God, no. You can hear breathing?” He looked even more pale than before as I nodded. “I feel sick,” he added.

“Is it a man or a woman?”

“A man.”

I had reached the top of the stairs.

The sound had leveled to a low, sickening tone, like a death rattle with no end.

“I just need to ask,” my hand stopped before reaching for the door handle, “did it just ‘appear’?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, nervously swallowing. “Do you think I’m responsible for this?”

He became more panicked.

“Mr Fenchurch, please, I just need to know more. It can only help with what I need to do.” Perhaps I shouldn’t ask these questions. Asking questions just leads to complications. Still, ghosts just don’t appear without reason.

“It’s been here a month.”

“And you’ve lived here…?”

“Two years. This has never happened before.”

“Have you had any renovation done? Anything that might have caused a disturbance?”

He shook his head. “You don’t think anyone would have, I don’t know, sent it, do you?” he volunteered.

“This is the realm of the supernatural, not InterFlora.” I answered.

He nodded, and seemed to be thinking through the logic of his suggestion.

“These things tend to have a reason for there appearance.  Knowing more can help with the dispersal of the entity, but it’s not essential. It’s just that I normally go out to building sites, renovated properties, places that’ve been disturbed.” I looked right into Fenchurch’s eyes. “Things like that can cause manifestations.”

“It just happened,” he puffed with frustration, nervously gripping the banister just below the landing.

Feeling that it was better not to push the point, I tapped the door handle to check the temperature.  It was cold, but not dangerously so. I learned to be cautious from an occasion when I almost suffered frostbite from a haunted climbing frame.

I pushed the door open, and the vista revealed a very ordinary scene. The room was in good order, surprisingly so. I was expecting the signs of disturbance, of a frustrated, angry spirit. I looked around, taking in the solid, cream painted furniture. I saw the bed. It was unmade, but again, showed no signs of perturbation.

Then I saw him.

Propped against the wall by the bed, legs splayed and outstretched toward the door I had opened, was the translucent form of a young man. He wore what looked like riding boots and breeches, but no shirt. The look certainly put him at a previous era. He looked to have been strong when he was alive, with a defined musculature, but someone had clearly overpowered him.

There was a thick, dark mark across his throat. He had been strangled. This was made all the more obvious from the bulbous, tortured eyes almost bursting from his face. His tongue hung useless and swollen against his clean shaven chin. The whole grisly vignette was replete with that horrible sound of his eternal last breath.

I entered the bedroom cautiously, not because of any fear I might have had, but I didn’t want to agitate the figure sprawled out on the bedroom floor. I’ve light-heartedly called it ‘Spooking the Spook’, but it can happen. The last thing I need is unpredictability, especially when dispersing a ghost.

The ghost was one of those poor unfortunate victims that had died violently, as so many do. I could almost suspect the incident had taken place recently, but his dated hunt clothes made me think otherwise. It’s certainly not attire I’d expect to see worn up and down the streets of West London that frequently anymore. Despite what Mr Fenchurch had told me, something must have caused this unfortunate man to appear. Not that it was really any of my business. I was sent to do a job and it was time to use my skills.

I shut the door behind me. The ghost of the man continued to look forward, appearing not to have noticed me at all.

“Can you hear me?” I said quietly.

The gutteral noise increased in volume for a second. I read this as a ‘yes’.

“I’m going to help you. I’m going to make the pain go away.”

The ragged breathing became louder. His eyes snapped round and looked directly at me.

“That’s right,” I affirmed, “you’ll be free.”

I held out both my hands, palms down. The familiar tingles raced from my fingertips, through my palms and into my forearms. The feeling was unpleasant, but one I’d felt uncountable times before.

The pressure around my head was beginning to build, and I knew this was the point where I had to control my breathing. I took deep breaths, which seemed incongruous against the endless deathly breathing of the ghost.

The sound of the ghost’s mimicking of breath was starting to break up, as though a switch was intermittently turning it off and on.

The noise was changing. Instead of throttled breathing, it seemed like actual speech pushing its way through.

I could feel my own energy building up in my chest. The warmth grew, radiating with a blue pulse that was beginning to show through my clothes. I held my hands over the broken figure.


It spoke.

“Kuh… kuh…”

It was too late to hold back. The energy was going to burst from my body.

As I pushed my hand onto the opaque outline of the prone form, his mouth spoke the word, “Killer.”

The energy burst from my hands in zig-zagging blue forks, scoring every vein, every blood vessel and every ligament with scorching heat. The ghost’s form was illuminated in the same blue glow. I watched as the figure turned to illuminated flakes that rose and faded, like ignited ashes from a dying fire.

The word ‘killer’ echoed in my head as blue flecks surrounded my vision and everything went black.


I awoke to shouts of, “Mr Hennersley? Mr Hennersley? Thane?”

I haven’t passed out for years. There’s a general feeling of weakness after a dispersal, but this was different. It’s like my body seems to know how much power I need to generate to complete a dispersal. If that’s the case, this particular entity really didn’t want to go.

It didn’t feel like I’d been out for long, but it took a while to get my bearings.

“I’m okay!” I shouted.

I pulled myself together, articulating my limbs awkwardly as I pushed myself up using the bed. “On first name terms too, then?” I mumbled to myself.

I left the room to see Fenchurch at the foot of the stairs, his nervousness had grown to seemingly unmanageable proportions. “It’s okay,” I told him. “It’s gone.”

“Thank you! Oh, thank you!” He spouted, running past me on the stairs and into his bedroom. “It really has gone, hasn’t it?”


Breaking down into sobs, he stumbled out of the bedroom and threw his arms around me. “Thank you.”

I reciprocated, somewhat reticently. Tapping his shoulder, I offered an inane, “There there, it’s alright now.”


I was still a little shaken when I left the house on Goldhawk Road. True, the effect of the dispersal, and subsequent blacking out. accounted for my feeling of weakness. It was, however, the ghost’s accusatory ‘killer’ that left me unsettled. The ghosts I deal with rarely make more than noises, stuck in that final moment. If they do have a message, it’s often repeated over and over, without a particular audience in mind.

Although I decided to pay it no further attention, the face of the young man, strangled in his prime, broken and laid out, stuck with me all the way home. I barely even noticed the line changes to get back to Brixton.



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Chucking A Bit Of A Book Out To The Internet

09/10/2013 at 2:47 pm (Uncategorized) (, , , , , )

Oh great, someone else is trying to chuck a book together. Yep. That someone is me.

I’ve made it part way through the book so far, but the problem is I’m doing it in a vacuum. I’m writing it to myself, and I think I just need someone to either tell me to carry on or jack it in for being rubbish.

It was @Luke_T_Spear who suggested I post up a sample chapter to get feedback. Thinking about it – and as I’m between writing briefs at the moment – I thought I would.

So, here it is, wannabe writer lobs a bit of a book out. I hope you enjoy:

The Man Who Killed Ghosts

One – Night Work

“Thane Hennersley?”

I nodded.

“Odd name, Thane,” the security guard commented as she looked at my pass.

“I think it’s Scottish,” I said.

“Are you Scottish?”


I looked up at the highrise block. It was imposing against the dusky September evening. Even though there was a warmth in the air, a gust had blown up. The plastic sheeting hung like banners, flapping and fluttering as they were caught by the wind.

The building was still incomplete, needing cosmetic fascias and glass for the windows to complete its modern look. It had been built among the decaying, run down flats in one of Lambeth’s areas earmarked for regeneration.

“You’re here for pest control or something then?” the security guard ventured.

“Yes, something like that. Can I go in?”

“No problem. Here’s the fob. Just hold it over the sensor of the main door.”

I thanked her and walked to the modern double doors. As instructed, I held the fob over the sensor. A green light indicated that I could enter.

The lobby smelled of fresh carpeting and paint. The lighting panels in the ceiling burnt with a fluorescent harshness. I blinked while my eyes became accustomed to the changes from the dying sunlight outside. I checked my phone for the message that came through earlier.

Peaceland development. Lambeth. Block B. Basement”

“Basement. Typical.” I muttered to myself.

I decided against the lift and took the stairs. In my line of work, taking the lift is just asking for trouble. It wasn’t just the pranks of playful spirits that could trap you, but unfinished elevator mechanisms.

Being a modern development, it wasn’t a basement as such, not in the traditional sense, but an underground carpark and area for bins. There was little in the way of light.  Only two striplights were working to illuminate the middle of the concrete forum I’d found myself in. Any other light was provided by the orange glow of the street lamps that had picked out the edges of walls and equipment, which now lay silent after a day’s work.

Initially, I felt nothing there. Nothing at all.

I’d never been misled by Will Tagler – my contact at the company – before. Maybe he was wrong this time.

I jumped slightly as a battered drinks can clattered along the concrete floor as it was taken by the wind. I’m always slightly annoyed when I jump at the most innocuous of things. Ironically, I never usually jump at anything supernatural. I always sense it before it appears.

Then I did.

Within seconds of the feeling of pressure around my head, it manifested.

A hunched over figure hovered around two feet above the ground. It was garbed in a dress… no robes. A monk? The body was completely covered, except for two twisted, long-nailed hands that extended from the roughly-hewn sleeves. The hands reached up to the hood, folding it back to reveal the full horror of the face underneath.

I was unable to tell if the ghost was once male or female, so wizened were its features. It had piercing, white eyes in sunken sockets. Under the face’s hooked nose was a row of rotten, broken teeth. The jaw was completely gone, and the tongue hung uselessly against the neck.

It shrieked in a completely inhuman way. The chilling pitch was delivered with a burbling timbre, no doubt as a result of the missing jaw that had been taken before death.

I held my ground. Already I could feel the energies in my body begin to coalesce. The static tingle ran up my arms, sparking and connecting like tiny, electrical roots that joined with the glow that formed in my chest.

The glow began to pulse from my hands, picking out every grotesque detail of the phantom that hung in the air. I could see it making a move.

It came straight for me, screaming in its vile, half gurgling, half shrieking cadence.

A death bogle.

Damn it, why didn’t Tagler warn me?

The creature seemed to hold its position, merely a few feet from me. If its hands touched me, I would be cursed to suffer and die in anything from a day to a year. It could be longer, but it’s really not something you want to experience anyway. Whatever the circumstances of its indecision, I wasn’t going to lose the advantage.

I lunged forward. My hand contacted with the creature’s torso, illuminating it with a blue aura. For a moment the ineffectual lighting of the car park was overtaken by the glow from the bogle as it shook and screamed in the air. The blue glow burst within it and the entity was instantly destroyed. The remnants of its form were no more than tatters, raining softly over me onto the hard concrete below.

The car park fell back into half-darkness, offering no clue as to the event that had just taken place.

I walked back out onto the forecourt after taking a short time to rest, which I needed to do to tackle the stairs. The blustery wind seemed to have died down a little. Strolling over to the security hut, I took a deep breath. I was used to being given scant information when going out on a job, but I had told Tagler to at least warn me if I was facing something that dangerous.

That wasn’t just a run of the mill ghost. It was a death bogle. If those things even lay a finger on you, you’ve had it.

I handed the fob over to the security guard.

“How’s the pest problem?” she asked.


“Oh, I didn’t see you with any gear.” She didn’t press the point, and I wasn’t in the mood to go into details. Frankly, I never am. “Rats make me feel… Urgh!” She shuddered.

“Me too,” I smiled.

“How are you getting home?” the security guard asked. “Tube?”

“I’m only in Brixton,” I answered, “just a stroll.”

“Well, be careful. There’s all sorts out there.”

I smiled. “Understood. Take care.”  I walked away as the security guard offered, “Goodnight!”

As I strolled away, I pulled my phone from my pocket, and read Tagler’s message again.  I hit reply and tapped:

In future, tell me if it’s something really nasty. That was a bogle.

No more than five minutes later, my phone vibrated:

Hey, you’re the expert. To me it’s just a spook. It’s done?

I replied that it was. The response read:

Good man. Transferring money now.

At least the money was good. It took the edge of seeing some of the grimmest sights the supernatural world threw at me.

I toyed with the thought of what it would be like to have an ordinary job. For a moment, I couldn’t think of any. Well, there’s security guard, train driver… shop keeper. There’s whatever Will Tagler does, although I don’t think that’s probably all that ordinary.

The truth is, I had a skill that’s been with me for as long as I can remember.

My earliest recollection of being able to see ghosts was at the age of four.

I had been invited to Trisha Britten’s fifth birthday party. Trisha and her friends were all around a year older than me. I was a summer baby, but I had been enrolled into the term with a lot of older kids, so I always seemed a bit smaller than my classmates. This continued all through my school years. It was my mother who suggested I go to Trisha’s party after chatting with the girl’s mum at the school gates.

As with most of my memories of that time, I tend to remember things in flashes, like flicking through a photo album. When I think back to my mind’s snapshots of that day, it is as you’d imagine a child’s birthday party to be. I was on my own, shy and awkward, not really feeling comfortable around anyone, especially children my own age. I’m not sure how it happened, but I remember playing games with the other children and laughing. I think Trisha’s mum was kind, and had a knack for getting kids to play well together. Even the shy and quiet ones like me.

I do remember it being springtime. The air was cool and damp as we played, haphazard and silly in the garden. We ran, hither and thither, heedless of rules that we’d either forgotten or ignored.

As we played, I was struck with a sensation of pressure around my head. I never got headaches, and wondered if this was what Mum had felt when she talked about them. The pressure was coming from the dark shape of a man.

The man in the garden wasn’t at the party.

When I think of him, the memories become fuller, more involved.  This recollection is less like mere stills and more like watching a film, albeit a film that had aged with the colours washed out.

He was so tall, taller than any other grown-up I’d seen. I took in every shred of his appearance. He was absolutely drenched from head to toe. Weathered work boots, worn trousers, a waist length, torn jacket wrapped around a dark, mottled shirt. My eyes met his. His face was pained, as though it was agony to speak. It felt like I stared for hours at this shambolic figure.

From nowhere, a ball hit me on the side of the head with hollow thunk. It didn’t hurt, but the shrill laughter of the other children shook me from that frozen moment. I looked to where the man had been standing, but he had gone.

I have a vague memory of asking Trisha’s mum who the man in the garden was, but I can’t remember her answer. I don’t think she had one.

There were no more invites to Trisha’s house after that.

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A Heart Warming Tale

18/02/2013 at 6:20 pm (Uncategorized)


I was walking home one day, when I saw a little old lady carrying her shopping. As I gained on her, I could see she was really struggling.

I asked her if she needed help.

“Oh no, dear. You see, I’m just a made up character to provide a heart-warming morality tale that’s designed to go viral all over Facebook.”

I was taken aback. “But you seem so real!”

“I know, and that’s what you’re supposed to think. This is all just a preamble to a lot of bollocks that people need to hear in the vain attempt to provide meaning in what is, in essence, a generally empty existence. In fact, this is about the point where the reader starts skimming to get to the point.”

As she carried on talking, I did indeed find my eyes glazing over, and I started to think about what I was having for dinner. So tedious was her pointless story, that I pinched my wrist to ensure I hadn’t lapsed into a coma.

“So,” concluded the little old lady, “you’re never too old to learn. Or something.”

“Wow, what an utter waste of time that was.” I said.

“Yep,” said the little old lady. “I got a million of ‘em.”

Incensed, I pushed her into a lamp post.

Annoying cow.

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Nick Griffin and the Myth of Heterophobia

19/10/2012 at 12:30 pm (Uncategorized)

Just a little cartoon I rattled up in my lunch time. I think this covers it.

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The Yahoo Comment Flowchart

18/09/2012 at 5:09 pm (Uncategorized) (, , , , , )

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Artist’s Impression of London 2012 Olympic Closing Ceremony… spoiler!

12/08/2012 at 7:30 pm (Uncategorized)

I’ve managed to get hold of an artist’s representation of what we can expect to see this evening as part of the Olympic Closing Ceremony.

You’ll see giant robot versions of Amy Winehouse and Freddie Mercury, who are flanking a floating model of the Yellow Submarine. Atop the Yellow Submarine is Kate Bush. To her side, a hot air balloon of Winston Churchill carries the Spice Girls, all leading the crowd in a rousing rendition of David Bowie’s ‘Heroes’.

Below them, a parade of daleks are led by their evil leader, Thatchos.


(I know, it looks a bit rough, but I only decided to do it an hour or so ago!)

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The Church of England: The Shakey Nail

12/06/2012 at 10:09 am (Uncategorized)

In light of the latest comments of the Church of England, there is understandably some outrage.

We’re all aware of the Church of England’s arguments about gay marriage, from marriage to be about procreation and needing a definition between straight and gay couples. We can also see where the C of E has hung its jacket on a particularly shakey nail.

It’s a bit much to take instruction on the definition of marriange from an institution formed to create divorce for a petulant monarch. And marriage for procreation? Bit of a slap in the face for childless couples and those who marry much later in life, no?

I will say here that I do not subscribe to any organised faith. My belief does not lie with any particular deity. So why do I care about getting married in the eyes of the church like a straight couple?

There should be no division. A same sex couple should not be denied any of the rights of couples of different sexes. It’s a fact. I can’t understand why marriage is seen as a ‘straights only’ club. That is, at its heart, segregation. It’s telling people, “oh, yes, you Gays, you can do whatever it is you do, but you’re simply not good enough to be married in the same way as your straight brother or sister, or your straight friends.”

Being gay does not make me worse than any other human on this planet. I’m am no more morally reprehensible than you. There seems to be an assumption that there should be a definition between the rights of sexes and sexual orientation.

There also seems to be an assumption that all gay couples aren’t Christian. Think about that, Church of England. Think about those people you’re letting down. It’s not a difficult change to make, it just takes time. Religious leaders are also teachers. C of E, teach about Love, not segregation and inequality.

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Interior Design

30/04/2012 at 9:21 pm (Uncategorized) ()


I haven’t posted anything to the blog, and this came to me last night while mucking about with the ipad, and it seemed like it should be posted. It’s kind of gross I suppose!

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