Red Sky In The Morning I have been here many times before. I am alone. Nothing new there. This is just how it is. How it has been for the last twenty years or more. I look around, not exactly a palace but it's somewhere for me to call home...for now at least. I'm standing in the kitchen. No appliances, no cups, plates, knives or forks. A few cracked, beige tiles cling to the wall above a grubby stainless steel sink that is dotted with seventeen flies, two wasps and three large black spiders. All #lifeless, their legs (all one hundred and thirty eight of them) point to the ceiling as if beckoning to some imaginary light. Resting on the skeleton of a base cupboard is a chipped and battered cinnamon coloured worktop. Covered in takeaway menus from restaurants that have probably long since closed. The worktop is also home to a scattering of cigarette ends and a couple of crushed cans of Special Brew. I am facing the hole that once housed a window. The boards, criss-crossing it in an unsuccessful attempt to keep out undesirables, allow only a slim view of the honey coloured sun's fight as it slashes its way through the battleship grey clouds. Looking down I catch my reflection in the shards of broken mirror that are strewn across the cheap laminate floor. My pale blue eyes, complete with elephant skin bags, in one shard. A mop of dirty blond hair in another. My sandpaper stubble, cracked top lip and broken front tooth in a third. The badly constructed photo-fit reminds me that the years have not been kind. The side step from the kitchen to the living area highlights just how small my new home is. The tatty double mattress with the olive green sleeping bag lying diagonally across it is framed by the cold, concrete floor like a piece of carefully thought out modern art. The metal grill covering the window hides the sorry scene from the eyes of the Sunday morning church goers. I peep through a gap in the grill and watch them. Wrapped in heavy coats, hats, scarves and gloves, protected from the cold wind that attacks from all angles, they disappear one by one. Through the large, arched doors they go without so much of a thought of what may lie beyond their faith. The pin holes and gap in the window grill allow in just enough light for me to be reminded of the creativeness of my home's previous tenants. Their desire to rid the world of nuclear weapons and their belief that 'Whatever they say, squatting will stay' had obviously inspired them to create the colourful mural that was daubed on the wall above my four bar gas fire. Removing the lid from the large take-out Cappuccino, I take a sip. The sound of the cuckoo singing from the pocket of my fur trimmed Parka makes my stomach tighten. ' Are you there yet?' The text reads. I tap in the most basic of replies, 'Yes'...Send. The cuckoo sings again, ' How are you?' How the hell do you think I am? Is my instant response but this is not how I reply. I take a moment. Another sip of Cappuccino. ' I'm fine, looking forward to seeing you tomorrow.' I lie. I'm grateful that it is just a text message. You can hide behind those toneless words. Drop the Portcullis and raise the Drawbridge to prevent potential invaders from intruding on your thoughts. 'Me too', came the reply. Then the cuckoo sang, ' I love you xx'. I put the mobile back into my pocket, finish my Cappuccino and leave. It's dark when I return. Sitting on a rickety wooden dining chair in the corner of the room, a tea-light flickering over my shoulder, I take out the envelope that has been burning a hole in my mind for the last two weeks. The words 'Do not open until 27th November' printed on the front create a knot in my stomach that I feel will never be untied. Today is the 27th November. It has been for the last twenty three hours and fifty two minutes. I slowly open the envelope, careful not to tear it in the slightest. Even in the dim light I recognise the writing immediately. The knot tightens. It's now November 28th... only by ten minutes but it feels like a #lifetime has passed. The knot has gone and the tears that I had been expecting didn't show up. Before opening the envelope I was tempted to use the last of the tea-light's power to destroy it. To free myself from the content before it could infect my thoughts. I'm glad now that I resisted...soon it will be over. I wake at eight thirty four to the sound of a mother shouting at her son to 'stop at the kerb' and 'wait for me before you cross', presumably on their way to school. The damp, musky mattress is too close to my face and the sleeping bag is too tight and restrictive around my legs. I should never have slept in my socks! Desperate for the toilet and a large coffee, I need to get up. Now. With no water, heat or light I leave my home, but not before texting to arrange to meet at the coffee shop. Two hours later and I'm sitting by the window, watching out for her over the rim of my large Americano. The knot has returned. I hope that she fails to show up. I chose this place because it isn't the easiest to find...especially for somebody who has lost all of the morals that she was born with. No such luck. Here she is. Long, assured strides as she briskly slaloms through the parked cars. Her short black hair, shaved into her neck, bouncing as she walks directly towards me. Eyes, slightly too close together, focused on her prey. The hint of a smile crosses her bright red lips. No sign of a knot. 'It's good to see you darling, ' she shrilly as she enters the tiny coffee shop. Her arms wide open in anticipation. A father and son, like a Bulldog and his pup, are distracted briefly by the entry of the 'celebrity'. They soon return to the page page of The Sun when they realise that it's nobody special. My sentiments exactly. She always was loud. Full of herself. She prefers confident. So confident that she expects to walk into my every thought whenever she pleases. No invitation needed, permission is never sought by her to trespass in my #life. 'Cappuccino, Latte or Americano?' I ask, avoiding the invitation of affection. 'Large Cappuccino', she said, slotting her legs under the table for two, followed quickly by, 'Happy Birthday James'. 'Thank you', I say (although it was my birthday yesterday). I open the envelope that she has rested against the small, ivory coloured vase that is home to a half dead pink carnation. 'Happy 40th Brother' ...Since when did I like sailing boats? My big sister, Annie. Seven years older than me and full of resentment for as long as I can remember. I didn't ask to be our day's favourite when we were children. I didn't even know that I was until she told me. From an early age I remember her invading my privacy. First my room and then my mind. One minute I'm loved, the next I'm loathed. A big hug for family photos, a thick lip and a cracked tooth for (apparently) embarrassing her in front of her boyfriend. 'Did you get a card from Dad?' she asked, her smile fading slightly. 'Yes'. A single word answer is all that I feel necessary. 'We missed you at the funeral.' 'I was there' again no need to elaborate. Leaning in towards me, she whispers ' Was there anything in the envelope for me?' I haven't seen my father for over twenty years. I was driven away. Drove myself away. I was convinced that he was disappointed in me and I couldn't stand it. It was easier to leave. Now that he had finally been in touch, she was here. Sniffing around. I could see her thoughts. There must be something for me. What have I got? I could almost see the pound signs in her eyes. 'Yes there was.' My response as cold and to the point as my previous ones. 'Dad loved this place,' she said as we approached the flat along the busy, tree lined road. 'He bought it over forty years ago you know. He used it as an art studio before it became his bachelor pad after mum discovered that he wasn't just painting the models. It must be worth at least a quarter of a million by now,' she said, the pound signs larger than ever. ' He told me that he would leave it to me one day to make up for you being the favourite, ' she said childishly. Not trying in the slightest to save my feelings she continued, the sly smile returning to her lips, ' I suppose Bro, that day has come.' She doesn't know that my #depression stems from her years of bullying. She doesn't even know that I get depressed. She thinks I get a bit down. ' Come on James, pull yourself together...it could be worse.' Could it, could it really? The grassing to mum. The ridiculing of me in front of my friends. The constant snipes about my sexuality - so what if I'm gay, what's it to you? The unlawful entries into my mind to plant her countless seeds of doubt about how day 'would be disappointed if he knew'. The seeds that eventually grew into a forest in the wilderness. The forest that I have inhabited alone for the past twenty years. The drinking. The self harm. The attempted suicide. The endless weeks spent in psyciatric units. It is all her fault yet here she is again. Trespassing in the place that had been my home for the last two days and doing her best to batter down the defences that I have worked so hard to build since our last meeting two years ago. 'Where is it then?' She said impatitiently. I reach inside my Parka and hand the envelope to my big sister. Silently she opens it, the anticipation clearly visible in her predatory eyes. She takes out the card. Her eyes skip past the words that I lingered over for so long the night before. 'To a much loved Son on your Birthday'. She hurriedly opens the card, again missing the vital message, 'All my love, now and always, Dad xx'. Her prize floats to the floor. A single piece of A4 paper, folded perfectly in half, her name scrawled diagonally across it. Dropping the card, she greedily grabs at the sheet of paper. Glancing swiftly in my direction, Annie smirks as she prepares to savour the moment, the moment that the ground floor flat in the heart of the City finally becomes hers. It's dark again, I have no tea-light now but at least there is a full moon. It may mean frost in the morning but I can live with that. The words will keep me warm. 'I'm sorry...All my love...a much loved Son...now and always...I'm sorry...I love you...Dad'. My throat hurts. I swallow deeply, trying to stop the inevitable. It's impossible. All those lost years. The hurt and the anger. The realisation that he has gone. It's too much, too painful. I don't remember crying at any time in my #life. The release never seemed worth the effort. The blotchy eyes and the runny nose that bring sypathetic noises from those who pretend to care. Much easier to allow the pain to trickle out through the secret lacerations. But now, at forty years of age, my cheeks covered in salty tears, I feel liberated. The letter that my sister thought was the key to her fortune was in fact the chainsaw that helped me to cut down the forest of despair that I have inhabited for over half of my #life. At least I feel in control of my #life. In control of my mind. The broken shards of mirror have long since gone and the graffiti now hidden by a Scrumptious Aubergine coloured feature wall. As I open the heavy chocolate brown curtains I see that the sun has won today's battle. Red sky in the morning... The Sunday morning church goers don't seem to be worried by the Shepherd's warning as they stroll peacefully towards the large arched door in their shirt sleeves and summer dresses. The boiling kettle whistles to me from the kitchen. Turning away from the window I look around. Not exactly a palace but it's somewhere for me to call home...for #life.

Half A Man On the outskirts of Manchester a tall, well built man leaned over to his wife. Sweeping the long blonde hair away from her face he kissed her lightly tanned forehead softly. His strong, clean shaven jaw brushing the tip of her petite nose. She squeezed his huge biceps through the crisp white shirt, pulling him by his silk, navy blue tie, to her lips. ‘Not bad for forty five,’ she whispered. ‘You’re not too bad yourself,’ he smiled as he grabbed his suit jacket off the black leather sofa. His long strides taking him over the solid oak floor to the marble hallway. ‘Should be back by midnight,’ he said as the window on his silver S Class Mercedes-Benz disappeared, humming into the driver’s door. ‘Love you,’ he shouted as the car crunched over the gravel drive and through the wrought iron electric gates. Gliding onto a quiet, country lane the Mercedes sped off towards the motorway. The driver’s Armani cuff links reflecting the early evening sun.​ Seventy miles away Carolyn watched through the two way mirror that separated the observation room from the dimly lit back office. Her long red hair was tied back in a pony tail and the hint of pink lipstick and touch of mascara that she had put on this morning had long since rubbed off. Carolyn sipped a tasteless coffee from the vending machine, only taking her sharp blue eyes away from the large viewing window in front of her to check on the time. Her feet were killing, she’d been on shift since six a.m. and the silver rimmed clock on the office wall told her that it was now exactly twelve hours later. The consultant psychiatrist, Mr. Pearce, sat on a solid oak desk to the side of her, his feet dangling above the floor like a three year old boy sitting on a park bench. His bald head tilted forward as if praying, he quietly read through the pile of case notes that had been delivered to him only an hour before. They had come across three counties and had travelled over a hundred miles to be sitting on his desk. Beyond the window a mountain of a man, six foot five and at least twenty two stone...big by anybody’s standards, slowly paced around a single white chair that sat in the middle of the floor. His baggy stonewashed jeans crumpled over his huge yeti like bare feet. The top of his back side exposed, an unattractive crack of dark hair, straining to escape the belt-less waistline. The top of a once white tee shirt poked out above the V necked sky blue fleece that was covered in tea stains and cigarette burns. He had a mammoth black beard that any mountain climber would have been proud of and had hands like a cricket batsmen’s glove. But in spite of his extraordinary facial hair and his gorilla like stature he looked almost childlike. His large hazel brown eyes were soft and trusting and the side parting in his slightly greying hair added to his air of vulnerability. Two hours earlier Carolyn had been waiting for him to answer the door. She remembered feeling uneasy as she stood in the communal hallway with the pile of dead leaves swirling around her feet and the stench of stale dog piss burning her nostrils. This was her second visit to Bob Pedlow since he had moved to the area about a month ago and something didn’t feel right. The last visit was okay, but she always thought it a bit dodgy when somebody of his age ’just turns up’. Where had he been? What had happened? Why come here? These were all questions that she would hopefully get answers to over the coming weeks and months but for now she would have to tread carefully, until she had gained his trust at least. She tapped on the door, half hoping that he wasn’t home. No such luck, the sound of a chain being released and the turning of a key announced his arrival in the doorway. His mountainous frame filled the space left by the open door. She flashed her ID but he had already turned away, disappearing into his dark retreat. The battered front door left to swing open by way of an invitation. Tip toeing past a crumpled old black sock and a pile of unopened letters she slowly made her way up the dimly lit hallway and into the living room. As she entered the room he sat facing her. Filling a grubby, cream leather armchair that had more wrinkles than a Shar Pei puppy’s face, he nodded towards a small, round dining table. She took the hint and sat on a lone wooden chair. Her eyes quickly scanned the room. Same as last week. A large navy blue sheet covered the window and a single bulb hung from the ceiling, giving off just enough light for her to check her notes. Beneath the window was a small pine bookcase. An Airfix model of R.M.S Titanic sat pride of place on the top. The shelf below contained a Collins English Dictionary, a reference book on the Egyptians and ‘The Interpretation of Dreams’ by Sigmund Freud. Three identical pictures of Spitfires hung in small wooden frames on the magnolia painted wall opposite the covered window. On the carpet-less floor an overflowing glass ashtray and a tea stained Mickey Mouse mug sat either side of his feet. ‘What do you want?’ he grunted, ‘Who are you? ‘I’m Carolyn, your psychiatric nurse’, she said softly. ‘Oh yeah, I remember talking to you on the phone a couple o’ weeks ago. Thought you were supposed to come last week,’ he said, spitting the words into her face. ‘I did come last week,’ a slight quiver in her voice as she wiped a couple of spots of his rancid saliva off her top lip. He looked confused, his eyes were full of anger and his tone seemed different to when she last saw him. ‘How are you?’ she asked. There was silence and she noticed that his eyes had focused on a spot just above one of the Spitfires. He began to smile as if he’d just remembered a scene from his favourite sitcom. The smile became a chuckle and within seconds he was roaring uncontrollably with laughter. His head thrown back, mouth wide open exposing countless rotten teeth. Carolyn’s uneasiness turned to deep anxiety. She had been in similar situations with her patients before but never with anybody as unpredictable, or as big, as Bob. Her heart was banging at her ribcage as she slowly got to her feet, grateful that she had left the front door slightly ajar. ‘Who are you?’ he boomed as the laughter suddenly stopped. ‘I’m Carolyn, your psychiatric nurse, Bob…remember?’ ‘Bob…who’s Bob?’ said the giant. ‘My name is Joe…Joe Smart.’ ‘Sorry Joe, my mistake’ whispered Carolyn. ‘Why don’t you sit down so we can have a little chat.’ ‘Sit down. Who do you think you are, telling me what to do?’ he yelled, his enormous bulk circling the tiny room. ‘I don’t need to talk to you, I don’t need to talk to anybody,’ his voice getting louder with every syllable. Prowling around the room, no regard for anything that was in his way . The tea stained cup lay on its back in the doorway, now handle-less, a crack scarring Mickey’s face. Crumpled cigarette ends littered the floor, his enormous ash covered feet smashing the ashtray against the scuffed skirting board under the window. ‘I’m a doctor of Psychology,’ he bawled, ‘and I can sort out my own problems.’ Carolyn glanced down the short hallway. Surely she could escape, it was only about ten feet to the door. But then there was the heavy metal door that led outside. The release button didn‘t work last week. It was bound to stick today, that would give him time to catch her and drag her back to his lair. She would have to risk it though, better to try and escape than to just give in. Maybe somebody would see her and would help…maybe they would see her and not help. Who in their right mind would tackle such a behemoth? Her attention was brought back to the room as the two foot long model of the Titanic smashed onto the concrete floor. A thousand pieces of plastic disappearing under the chair and dining table, coming to rest in piles of dust and fag ash. Her instincts were to run but the ogre was now on his knees. Tears streaming from his eyes and disappearing into the undergrowth of his beard. She started edging towards him but, as she approached he shot her a look of pure evil, and she turned and ran. She had cleared the hallway and her fears about the metal door proved unfounded, it was slamming behind her as she looked over her shoulder. Fumbling in her handbag, finding pens, lipstick, post-it notes and even a miniature screw driver before finally grabbing her car keys. She stumbled over the unkempt grass verge that separated the small car park from the three storey pebbled dashed building that housed the grim looking flats. She kicked a crushed can of Carling and an empty packet of Benson and Hedges before taking the heads off a family of dandelions that were growing by the kerb. Falling into the driver’s seat of her metallic blue Renault Clio, the taste of the ’Black Ice’ Magic Tree that she had bought earlier that day hitting the back of her throat as she gulped in huge amounts of air. Not waiting to get her breath back and her lungs still burning Carolyn sped out of the tiny car park, crunching over an already broken bottle of Stella, her mobile phone stuck to her ear. A few minutes later a stream of blue flashing lights passed her heading toward the flats. ​ ‘Bob Pedlow’ said Mr. Pearce, his deep voice bringing her back to the small office. ‘Forty Five years old, he was diagnosed with Multiple Personality Disorder as a child.’ he read from the file that was lying on the desk. ‘Mother and partner were heroin addicts. Bob suffered horrendous abuse at the hands of her partner when he was just eighteen months old. Mother and partner were jailed and both died in prison less than a year later, overdoses. Bob was taken into care and within six months had been adopted. ‘That’s shocking’ said Carolyn, her cobalt blue eyes still fixed on the figure beyond the glass. ‘The abuse was so severe that Bob’s brain had to disassociate from the experience,’ the consultant continued. ‘This created an alter personality that took over the pain, this defence mechanism enabled him to survive. Damaged, but alive.’ ‘How many alters are there?’ asked Carolyn. ‘Since he’s been here we’ve observed two distinct personalities that alternately take control of his behaviour. Bob Pedlow, the vulnerable, sensitive damaged little boy and Joe Smart. Doctor Smart is the confident, intelligent one. He is also the aggressive one, he has taken on all of Bob’s anger and pain and needs to release it whenever he can. He is two people, both have their own memory and neither have knowledge of each other’s existence,’ explained the consultant as they both stared at the giant beyond the mirrored glass. He may be two people but, in effect, he is only half a man, thought Carolyn as she wiped away a single tear that had found it’s way on to her cheek. A knock on the door broke the short silence. A petite, dark haired nurse entered the room followed by an imposing man, attractive in an Arnold Schwarzenegger kind of way. Obviously spends a lot of time in the gym, thought Carolyn as she acknowledged the latest spectator to the room with a slight nod of her head. He was introduced as a specialist in Multiple Personality Disorder before the dark haired nurse left the room, muttering something about how stuffy it was in there. The new doctor brushed past Carolyn, flicking his navy blue silk tie over his broad shoulder as he did. His crisp white shirt tight on his muscular arms, expensive looking cuff links completing the look of a successful man. He looked vaguely familiar to her, perhaps she’d seen him around the hospital. He stepped as close to the mirror as possible, his breath forming a light mist on the glass in front of him. Bob‘s head had been bowed for the whole time that Carolyn had be observing him. Suddenly his head snapped up, his eyes focusing directly on the spot where the new doctor’s breath had formed on the mirror. Bob walked slowly and deliberately towards his reflection. Carolyn held her breath, waiting for the explosion of anger and rage. Bob took one last step, and reaching forward he ran his fingers over the image looking back at him.​ ‘Hello Joe,’ he whispered affectionately, ‘I’ve missed you.’ The new doctor was frozen to the spot. His eyes locked onto Bob’s. Or was it his own reflection that he was staring at? He couldn’t work it out. What was going on? Who was this stranger that had such a hold over him? Who was this monster that looked so familiar? ‘I’ve been waiting for you Joe,’ smiled Bob. The specialist’s chest began to tighten and his head span to the point where he nearly passed out. He eventually managed to break the spell that Bob had put on him. ‘He had a brother,’ said Mr. Pearce, raising his bald head from the papers, ‘a twin brother.’ The specialist was now standing over Carolyn, his soft hazel brown eyes looking down at her. His lapel directly in front of her, his name badge burning into her eyes…Dr. Joe Smart. Steve Nestor seemed to have over him and stumbled away from the mirror.

Reflections Of A Cowboy (A piece of #life writing containing potentially upsetting material) I've always liked cowboys. I glanced at the three inch square photograph from nearly forty years ago. The crinkled, time stained picture, along with another of me dressed in beige flares and a brown tank-top, has sat in the hallway of my home staring at the comings and goings of my busy #life for the past three or four years. Today it catches my eye for some reason, maybe because it's my youngest son's birthday and the boy in the picture looks just like him, I don't know. I look closely for probably the first time ever at the little boy that I once was. The felt crimson coloured, ten gallon hat, with shimmering silver trim covers my curly blonde hair(and most of my face). The hat is a slightly darker shade of red than my waistcoat and lacks the embroidered orange images of lassos and six barrelled guns. The cheap, white plastic holder hangs from my side, empty as I've obviously been instructed to point the silver gun at the camera to 'capture the moment'. The photographer - my mum -manages to break the illusion (if there ever was one) of me being a real cowboy by including my Rupert the Bear Space Hopper in the picture. My left hand gripping his outstretched rubber arm, my eyes looking down to ensure that he is still there and ready for the next bouncing session. Whatever happened to that outfit and my Rupert Space Hopper? Where did my blonde hair go, and where did the look of innocence disappear to from my eyes? Looking in the mirror I hardly recognise the boy. I know I'm the same person, I still have the same eyes but they have lost the sparkle that they possessed when I was a cowboy. Turning forty I realise that I am now middle aged. If I get past eighty I will consider myself extremely fortunate. Arthur, my Grandad, made it to seventy seven. Greta, his wife of fifty six years (and my Grandma of thirty nine) survived until the impressive age of eighty eight. Somewhere in between will suit me just fine. Dad left (not that he was ever there) when I was just eight and I never really knew him. I have been told that he was an electrician, a sailor in the Royal Navy, an off shore oil rig worker and a Glaswegian alcoholic that bore an uncanny resemblance to Billy Connolly. I have seen a photo and the only resemblance is the beard. Perhaps he was different in real #life. He died on the Queensland coast in the city of Bundaberg, aged fifty one. I can't say that I've ever missed him. 'You can't miss what you don't know,' my Grandma once said when we were talking about him and she was right, as she always seemed to be. I think that it's fair to say that Dad leaving made no difference to my #life whatsoever...Mum's new boyfriend did though. I don't exactly recall when or even how it began. What I do remember is the searing pain that I felt as he assured me that 'it hurts more as a grown up so best to get it out of the way while you're still young'. My face buried into the soft white pillow, my cries muffled, my eyes closed but still leaking. Clinging onto the heavy brown and beige woollen blanket with my fingers and toes. Gripping it like a baby chimp clinging to its mother, until it was over and my neck was released from his rough, nicotine stained fingers. I don't remember ever feeling important despite his whisperings that it was our 'special secret'. The scratching of his rough sandpaper stubble against my soft freckle-spattered cheeks and the stench of stale beer and Park Drive cigarettes on his hot, desperate breath suggested to me that these were not special moments. At the time I wasn't sure what they were or why I was being hushed out of bed in the middle of the night. My eyes stuck together with sleep. So tired that I bumped my way through the house, scraping my arms on the sharp swirls of Artex that had been used on virtually every wall. I just knew that I could tell nobody or 'something bad would happen'. He totally destroyed my childhood and extinguished the spark of innocence that I desperately wanted back. His crushing of me coincided with Margaret Thatcher's reign as Prime Minister. Her destruction of the country was the backdrop to my abuse. Bobby Sands died in the Maze prison, starving himself to death in a bid to get his plea noticed. Maybe this could have been an option for me too! The Falkland's War began when I was ten years old. The Battle of Goose Green started the day before my eleventh birthday and ended a day later. The British winning the battle and, a few weeks later, the War. That day I sat cross legged on my bedroom floor. My favourite coach, horses and cowboy figures by my side. I was playing with my new Matchbox Race and Chase Scalextric set. A controller in both hands, my brain split between catching the criminal and escaping the blue and white American police car. Although my eyes were focused on the track, my ears were trained to listen for every creak on the stairs. 'Please not today'. I hoped to avoid my own battle, one that I knew I could never win. Even on my birthday there was no escape. My toys lay silent as he satisfied his needs. The abuse continued and a couple of years later whilst my coal mining uncles were fighting for their rights on the picket lines, I was still feeling as lonely and as scared as I did on that first time that he invaded me. The pain was still intense. At least I had the weekends to look forward to. Saturday afternoons were spent with my Grandad and Dickie Davies' World Of Sport. The coal fire was always crackling away and Grandma seemed to have an endless supply of Viscount biscuits and two fingered Kit Kats. Grandad would sit in his favourite armchair wearing his best tie and braces, reading the Daily Mirror's racing pages. I would always watch On the Ball presented by Brian Moore until the horse racing came on. That was my cue to go outside and inspect Grandad's giant leeks and check on the chickens in the warm and smelly coop at the end of the garden until it was time for the likes of Big Daddy, Giant Haystacks and Kendo Nagasaki to do battle in the wrestling ring. I felt safe and loved. There was nothing to fear there. No creaking stairs and hushed threats. No nicotine stained fingers and evil, piercing eyes. My Grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins and friends were all unaware of the ordeal that my #life had become. I wish that my mum had also been unaware. After years of silence I finally found the courage to tell her what had been happening. Her response still shocks me to this day, especially so since I became a parent. She did nothing, in fact she turned a blind eye and allowed him to continue physically, mentally and sexually abusing her child. This confirmed to me that he had been right all along when he had said ' Don't tell anybody or something bad will happen.' I now knew that I was alone. If my mother, the person who gave birth to me, who is supposed to protect me, was willing to allow this to happen then there was nobody to turn to. I would just have to put up with the abuse until I could leave. I was too scared, too tired and too drained to do anything else. Two years later he left. I didn't know why, I didn't care. I couldn't see the point in asking. All that mattered to me was that I was fifteen years old and for the first time that I could remember I didn't go to bed worried that I may be woken up with a slap across the head, a punch in the small of the back or something worse. The knot in my stomach that had been wound so tightly over that last six years remained for the next fifteen. It wasn't until I met my now wife that my confidence began to grow again and the knot of fear and mistrust began to untangle. I am still in contact with my mum. I don't know why, she brings nothing to my #life and our relationship was irreparably damaged when she betrayed my trust. I suppose that I have learnt to rise above the feelings of hatred and anger. My innocence was taken away and my childhood ruined but I have learnt that there is no good in looking back. We must always look to the future. In fact, as I look again in the mirror, I'm sure that there is a little sparkle appearing...that little cowboy is still in there, somewhere. Steve Nestor

The Perfect Apple The moment was perfect in that instant, As we leapt from the yellow cab's doors. The bright lights of Manhattan in the distance, On our honeymoon night in New York. The Arctic wind slashed so harsh at our faces, Like a Stanley knife cutting through board. Even this could not dampen our spirits, On our honeymoon night in New York. We stayed on One Hundred and Nineteenth, And were told that the cops do not dare To frequent this high up in the Apple, even On our honeymoon night in New York. We paid him the full forty dollars, And then added on five as a tip. As he handed our case from the trunk of his cab, On our honeymoon night in New York. We skipped up the steps, taking two at a time, Hand in hand as we burst through the doors. I kissed my wife's lips as we entered the lobby, On our honeymoon night in New York. Steve Nestor

Nine Eyes full of pies, cold air slapping my face. Steaming along but tip toeing with grace. Gliding as smooth as a three legged race. Legs are well-oiled, although they're no more. I focus on nothing, whilst seeing four Identical wives, each one I adore. Cut in half I slalom, staggering through Brahms and Liszt's dulcet blend: now we argue. Crying and shouting, laughing 'I love you'. Fuelled by wine and plentiful pitchers. Hushed up giggles and deafening whispers. Craving for nibbles, biscuits and kippers! Five minutes tops from the pub to our pad. Felt more passions than the folk of Baghdad. Roaming as far as a hoary nomad. Steve Nestor