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  Surprised I managed to finish it, what with juggling work and writing and some time for relaxation and mental health, but this month I read the above novel. And I am struck by the characterisation of The hippopotamus, and thus delved deeper into Stephen Fry’s writing psyche. But not that deepily; at least, not to the depths of a hippo with a cocktail on its nose. The main character of the book is poet and newspaper columnist (and hippo), Ted Wallace. It’s clear from the initial scene that he’s got an inflated sense of self importance as he gets fired and goes to stay with relatives. I had just been sacked from my paper, some frantic piffle about shouting insults from the stalls at first night. I love these creative descriptions of his editor, that, note, also describe his contempt: my wet turd of an editor had shrilled the kind of anile little runt who, in foyers and theatre bars the West End over, can be heard bleating into their gin and tonics I ...

Post-Brexit, coronavirus, whatever the current political or global crisis writers keep writing. Don't they? Not always. During 9/11 it has been noted that creativity took a nosedive... okay, I'm going to be honest here... I couldn't find my original reference. Some years ago I read something related to something. Just kidding. I read an article related to trauma and it discussed that when 9/11 happened writer productivity/submissions to publishers fell. Apparently everyone was too shocked to write. As that would require some semblance of normalcy. Please tell me if you find this article back as I would love to reread it. Anyhow, now my thinking has changed. A lot has also happened in my life since 9/11, my student days, when I worked part-time as a cleaner to pay my way through university. Not to mention, the fallout from 9/11 such as increased airport security and the hoops we now must jump through. Sigh. On a more optimistic slant, I have discovered living in the ...

A poem inspired by a conversation with Dorota and Stéphane , with a nod to Debra Basset’s research on digital grieving. The violin, in itself, is not violent. What if, says the artist to herself, the instrument’s lines and angles are a shared mental framework of hidden influences and meanings. The bow, for instance, thrums across one’s deadened consciousness, strokes a beat across the heart and back again. The violin is almost drawing blood in the way it shakes me awake. A violinist can create a crisscross of cuts in the ice of a soul as easily as soothe and glide. Its movements start soft, the space between the notes casting the magic of a first lover’s kiss. Gaining momentum, squiggles on pulped leave dance pirouettes, marionette-like shadows across the lines. I don’t know what it was like to live amongst candlelight and clicking piano keys,  when the only entertainment was string, wind or percussion. The miracle of live...

By E.L. Parfitt , author of Seascape, Shattered Roses and Temptation & Mozzarella. This month I took some time to be creative with a pile of old scribbles I had made in a spiral notebook. Here is the result.  Short story: Lies on the cliff It’s an uncertain coming of age: a catcher in the rye. There are lies breathing on the cliff surrounding the house. It’s maddening that, trying to work out what’s the point of a lot of things. A conscious faltering. Control. End. The precipice… I can’t imagine how… slowly it becomes the tale gone wrong. God knows we all sprint off the edge in the end; dependant on twilight feelings of anger. The doctors did not know what to expect. Each time they considered how it came to be I wanted to ask, ‘Why bother?’ I left the room for a cigarette break. I know that surprises you because I don’t smoke. I wanted to leave. To breathe in the peaceful alchemy of being absent. Art came, was born, died.  “If you love someone,...