Change and How to Negotiate It.

“September was always the annual period of change. Countryside fields previously swaying with blankets of wheat were now barren stubble, views begin to emerge between the branches shedding leaves, while evenings tucked in more effectually than my oversized school shirt that I’d only grow into after Christmas.”
Loved this – please do go and like the original post 🙂

Idle blogs of an idle fellow

“Blue-bore”, “blue-borie” – when the weather is gloomy or stormy, an opening in the clouds through which clear blue sky can be seen (Scots). Metaphorically, therefore, a glimpse of hope, a hint of the imminence of coming change. – Robert Macfarlane

Idle blogs were never intended as a diary. To be honest it’s hard to know my intention of regular blogging beyond growing a readership so large that I might then flog my own range of gold-plated trainers (guaranteed to burn twice as many calories).  Instead I appear to have written an online diary, the secret blogs of Tom aged 44 3/4s (ish). Looking back I can see how these sporadic and hopefully entertaining thoughts on why everyone is a twat, apart from me, actually mark my life, like sweets trailed behind Hansel and Gretel.

And September is the month for looking back. Forget the forced-celebrations of New Year; September was…

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How to Avoid the Perils of Modern Shopping…

If the intro immediately sends you to YouTube like it did me, make sure you come back to read the blog – always worth it.

Idle blogs of an idle fellow

We’re S.H.O.P.P.I.N.G….we’re shopping. – Pet Shop Boys

Shopping used to be so easy. When I was a boy (oh, here we go Grandad), we went grocery shopping once a month and made it last 28 days. February was the only month in which we failed to run out of provisions. It was a day trip ending in playing with boxes on the lawn.  Anything lacking was grown on the allotment, which sadly didn’t grow chocolate biscuits, or Kellogg’s Frosties.  Shops were windows for pressing noses up against.

Despite this I thought I lived in the future, which is a strange prism through which to see the 1970s, but in light of my father’s wartime experiences it was Disneyland. But compared with today we lived in Eastern Europe, when towns would hang out bunting and hire a brass band to celebrate arrival of the first washing machine. Our local toy shop…

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Two Divided by Zero

the curse of a mind that analyses, questions, wonders, speculates

and wanders down paths it should not

wanting everything to stay the same

and everything to change

sounds deranged

but what was enough isn’t anymore

or maybe it still is, hard to tell

when your thoughts are stuck in a self-made cell

what should be mine is not

even though it is – somehow

there are some things you shouldn’t look into

don’t disturb the surface, don’t stare into depth

wise advice, easy to say, hard to obey

what could have been is pointless

what will be matters more

yet I can’t see the shore

I’ve strayed too far

others are knocking at my door

simplicity lies that way

meaningless things which wouldn’t cause sleeplessness

and a possible trip to the funny farm

alas I am blind and deaf

can’t see, hear anything that’s not my semicircle

my Bermuda Triangle

the one who makes me want to crawl

on a filthy floor

littered with shared deviant fantasies

and depraved tales better left untold

or push him against a wall

to place a collar around his throat

masters and servants is a game best played

when one is eager to swap roles

I want both, I want all

in any case, in life

only a handful of times

at most

can you find another mind

that perfectly aligns with yours

and never, not once

can two be divided by zero

so my problem has not been solved

writing, following a winding course

what to do now… I still don’t know

Is camping REALLY a good idea?

When writers go camping, they’ve got one advantage over other campers, they can write about it when they get home – which proves once again that writing is the best therapy. Please go like on Tom’s blog 🙂

Idle blogs of an idle fellow

“I can’t sit still and see another man slaving and working. I want to get up and superintend, and walk round with my hands in my pockets, and tell him what to do. It is my energetic nature. I can’t help it.”

Jerome K. Jerome – Three men in a Boat.

I’ve been camping with two under 6-year old boys for a few days and I’m shattered, like I’ve been sleeping in the bass bin at a Leftfield gig. It’s a unique type of tiredness that suggests you missed an entire night’s sleep and have been covered in a layer of sweaty glue and smell of a bonfire.

Any self respecting idler should listen attentively for suggestions of camping, and be ready with excuses at the drop of a bent-tent-peg that’s impossible to hammer into even the softest ground yet remains in the equipment bag. Nothing has ever looked better…

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What came to pass


Where there was friendship once, the land now lies neglected, weeds and ruins usurping sweet memories
The woman who could talk the black of a crow suddenly doesn’t think there is anything to add
Others she involves
With an edited report
She omits facts that are crucial
She’s very, very careful
And in this way she redraws
Her fingers dirty with chalk
Her mind febrile
She stoops to – almost – lies
As a last resort
Until she is left
With the picture
That will let
Live with herself
But the truth she hides, ignores
It’s too harsh and too simple
What came to pass was due to the worship of false idols over honesty and the real

Image credit: Abandon on Instagram



Stress severs the thin cord that binds each of us to fragile happiness. It makes us blind to the light beyond the belligerent clouds.
We, unsighted and teetering on our self-made pedestals shoot out arrows into the dark…and unsurprisingly, hardly any hit the mark. So the hour grows late and the panic increases while one tosses and turns in sheets made of 100% misery… resting on a bed of agonising thoughts, becoming slave to a vicious insomnia that leads to even more irrational fears and phobias.

You need to grab the courage to follow the bend in the road, not knowing where it leads exactly, and not knowing how. You must let go of the worry, that background constant anxiety which seeps into everything and drains the colours of your days, leaving you dazed, out of place and unable to face life – the big picture – on your own terms.
Clichés as those words may be, as a socialite’s gold watch from Cartier, they are nonetheless true, real, in the same way ostentatious jewels are too.

Even if the world goes to hell, and fuck knows it often seems determined to exercise that privilege, you’ll survive. You might even thrive, just like the flowers that defy circumstances and grow in the narrow gaps between stone slabs. That’s the knowledge you must hold on to. And my hand. Hold on to my hand, I won’t let go, not as long as you’re surrounded by shadows – for now, I can be your rock. Let that be enough.

Image Credit: atlargemagazine



in forests
of winter frost
& tortured tales
so many different paths
she may yet
take –
the indifferent stars
& magenta moon
will not help –
she tenses
and exhales
of silvery sadness

*This is the result of a writing prompt on Twitter. I usually type my musings, but I was on a train and my phone pretty much dead, hence the scribbling with a pen – nice change*


First Image credit: – second image: my own

The Light & the Darkness

I am the sweetly scented rose
folding its delicate petals
The prickly treacherous thorn
drawing blood, relishing its flow
The fragrant woods,
and freshly cut hay
on a summer’s day
The soft voice soothing a child
The gentle hand keeping her from harm
The girl with an open book
sitting on the cathedral’s steps
pondering thoughts of
spiritualism and finesse
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
The stolen cigarette,
vodka and lemonade
Seedy alleyways
The wringing bodies,
feeling the heat
eyes stinging,
sweat burning like acid
The abandon, the moans
Wild sex as vital as a breath
followed by the tenderness of the poet
I am the light and the darkness
navigating between tame and wild
It is simply, who I am

The Girl under the Paris Bridge


She could only be found by the pure-hearted
the ones who believed in magic
and possibilities
the ones in dire need
the scarred, damaged

she gave them sweet caresses
or tender words
gently, she stroked
body or soul
sometimes both
whatever they needed

within her embrace
they found themselves
broken apart,

her voice, rising and falling
echoing under the bridge
musical notes cascading down
an unusual sonata composed
of nothing but arpeggios

whirling, shimmering in the air
getting caught in her wild mane of dark hair
reflected in the deep green pool of her eyes
the musical notes held them
told them
that anything could be fixed

before they left, she would
place her hand palm down
over their heart
and whisper
tu n’oublieras jamais

And they never did forget

they took the moment,
softly laid it in a piece of Chantilly lace,
folding it carefully
and tucking it away
to be taken out
and marvelled over
on sunless days
and starless nights

Like them, seek the girl under the Paris bridge
if you want to change your story
and choose your own ending

More drunken writing from me… this girl under the Paris bridge popped into my head out of nowhere and I found that I so badly wanted her to exist that I just had to make her up, give her life — now she’s real ❤

Written by Nathalie – October 10th 2015 (3am)