The Swaling

Myself and Davies are sat in the local MPs surgery waiting room in Sleescale. In one of the better parts of the town, outside are cobbled streets where old gas lights stand redundant next to [more…]

Myself and Davies were sat on a hilltop (the flat limestone pavement type) in our bivvys and sleeping bags, squashed together for warmth. We faced towards the coast. At the horizon, a flat sea was [more…]

Myself and Davies are two dots in the landscape running along county roads from Sleescale to a neighbouring town. Occasionally, we take short cuts across farmer’s fields. The weather is cold. So cold that the [more…]

“Very nice,” declared the Colonel while the pair of us looked towards a bungalow, stable block and paddock, one of a number of exclusive homes sitting in a knot about twenty minutes drive from the [more…]

“Silly old fart.” Never slow to turn thoughts into words, Davies expressed that one from his side of our shared room, above a Sleescale corner shop, while sat in bed reading a three-day-old newspaper by [more…]

Having been indoctrinated into my new task by the Colonel, I wandered into the town centre with his money to suit and boot myself. Jeans, T-shirt, top and trainers made way for a Marks and [more…]

The Colonel toured Sleescale’s backstreet digs in his battered Transit van picking up our colleagues as if they were black economy workers to be delivered to building sites, cockle beeches or docks. Most of us [more…]

Davies brought me breakfast in bed. Was it genuine concern or his army humour? I was in a bit of a state. His cooking wasn’t great. The culinary school that he relied upon seemed to [more…]