Happy birthday

Thinking of you angel.



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Shine on.


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Time’s not a healer.

Time’s not a healer. For me the passing years just make me tired. Not the kind of weariness that sleep will allow you to wake from rested. It’s a soul stretched, thinness. A spirit all skeleton and no muscle.

Imagine a picture, a photograph. A perfect moment captured compete. I have one, well several. But one in particular. I carry it in my pocket. Every day and always. Everywhere I go I have that memory next to me. Close.

Sometimes, that photograph, that instance of a perfect moment makes me almost weightless.  I can stride giants steps, float on a breath of air and sail above it all.

But mostly, the knowledge that the moment has passed, that perfect moment, the memory of it and all the others we shared, being gone, being passed, never to be repeated, carried forward or ever being more than just a photograph, a static dead moment, weighs more than the world.

The weight of that picture, that perfect moment, sat silent and still in my pocket feels the weight of every year passed since it’s taking, and some days just pins me in place. I try to move forward. The best I can manage is to stumble, fall ever inwards around the same small circle.  Getting nowhere, feeling nothing but dizzy, confused and tired.

Time’s not a healer, it’s just minutes flying past, hours pulling at your heart and days filled with memories that the years want to steal.

I have a photograph, it’s here in my pocket and it weighs as heavy as a world.

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on the eve of 2011

“I  wouldn’t want to be the person who had felt as I do now and then walked – or drifted – away from that feeling until things felt better.

That is precisely my problem. I prefer the idea of death to what I feel just now, but I would prefer to feel the way I do now for ever than to feel better, because feeling better would mean that I am not the one who loved her any more, and I could not bear that.”

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I was the moon and you were my endless sky.

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Seven years and she’s still dead.

Seven years and she’s still dead. I think deep down I’ve never expected that she’d be dead this long, that I cant fix it and make it all get back to normal. It’s not how any days and years its been since I last saw or held her, but how many more there are still to come. I don’t want her to be dead for ever – come on, she’s been gone long enough now. Can I have her home and we’ll just go back to normal now please. Am I going crazy?

Ruine hath taught me thus to ruminate,

That time will come and take my love away.

This thought is as a death which cannot choose,

But weep to have that which it fears to loose.

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Missing Lindsay today. I think it’s the Autumn leaves. Well i know it is really. Same every year.We met in the Autumn, fell in love in the Autumn and I carried her coffin through the falling leafs at the end.
“Love is a flower that grows in any soil, works its sweet miracles undaunted by autumn frost or winter snow, blooming fair and fragrant all the year, and blessing those who give and those who receive.”


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still singing the same old songs.

With your kiss my life begins. You’re spring to me, all things to me.

Don’t you know you’re life itself? Like a leaf clings to a tree, oh my darling cling to me.

For we’re creatures of the wind; and wild is the wind, so wild is the wind..

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O lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again.

just sat here awake after a nightmare, another nightmare.

Always the same nightmare when I sleep, and always the same heartache when i awake to find it’s still true.

I miss you.


“O lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again.”


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"She was more than human to me. She was a Fairy, a Sylph, I don’t know what she was – anything that no one ever saw, and everything that everybody ever wanted. I was swallowed up in an abyss of love in an instant. There was no pausing on the brink; no looking down, or looking back; I was gone, headlong, before I had sense to say a word to her.”

i still just wish you home.

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Just another normal night

well tonight’s nothing special, not an anniversary, birthday, holiday or anything like like. Tonight is just a night, just like every other. And just like every normal night I’m missing you. I Lay in bed and still cant understand why you cant be here. Im just missing you, missing you too much to think of any clever way of saying it.

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it’s still just you and me angel.

do you remember our first new years eve together? There must have been a 100 people in that room. Yours was the only voice I heard that night, the only smile that mattered. We thought the future was ours for the taking and would last forever. I still can’t believe your gone. I just want you back home with me. I wish I could believe you were out there somewhere, that you could still be watching over me. People say that to me all the time you know, “she’s still there with you”, “talk and she hear you”. Neither of us ever believed that did we. I do try angel, it’s just so dark without you.

I dont have any fancy words to write this time.

I just miss you so much.


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It’s still agony

"If our affections be tried,

our affections are our consolation and comfort;

and memory, however sad,

is the best and purest link between this world and a better."


tonight as every night I miss you angel. x

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I think I still have the bump.

This is how Lindsay and I met for the very first time. We were both walking fast down two different streets, we both just happened to reach the streets intersection at the very same moment. we both happened, at the very moment we were turning the corner to look across to the other side of the road where a man and his girlfriend where having this awful viscous argument. So, not looking where we were going, and turning the corner, we smashed our heads together and both fell to the floor almost knocked spark out.

I saw her every day from then on until she was gone for ever.

Every single day.

Maybe not very romantic, but very very us.

It just shows, you never know what’s around the next corner waiting for you.

It may be just a painful bump on the head, yet it may also be something truly wonderful.

Rarely can it be both, but we were a bit special like that.

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that anniversary.

happy anniversary.

we had so many different ones, but this was one of our favourites
still miss you every day angel. 
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some nights i still really miss her, still seems to come as a shock. its like you go for days unknowing. Then, out of nowhere I get hit with a memory. Sometimes of something happy, something joyous, sometimes something tiny and to anyone else insignificant. But always strong. Like when you remember something because of a smell, the way the smell of a kid just home from school smelling of pencils and chalk can make you 8 years old again. I remember. And I fall.
It’ll pass, always does in a couple of days. I wish you all could have known her.
night, i need to get some sleep.

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six years

“Let them be. Let them lie unspoken of, in his breast. However distinctly or indistinctly he entertained these thoughts, he arrived at the conclusion, Let them be. Among the mighty store of wonderful chains that are for ever forging, day and night, in the vast iron-works of time and circumstance, there was one chain forged in the moment of that small conclusion, riveted to the foundations of heaven and earth, and gifted with invincible force to hold and drag.”


“Even grief sobbed itself out in time; only Time was good for sorrow,Time who saw the passing of each mood, each emotion in turn; Time the layer-to-rest.”


I still miss you. I don’t suppose that’s ever going to change is it angel.

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back in the day

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And I miss home very much…

This happened a few days after the funeral.

well i have this wallet that i always use. always have it on me, and always know exactly what’s in there. There is obviously the section for the cash, then the little pockets where i keep cards and a place for things i carry around, keepsakes.

well one day i was out and took my wallet from my pocket (I’d looked in it about 3 hours before at cash point to put some money in it). well i took out my wallet and in the front section where you put paper money there was this scrap of paper.

A strip ripped off a spiral note pad,. you know like those little reporter pads. Anyway on the note was Lindsay’s writing. I know 100% it was her writing, even though it looks shaken and written hastily. I’d know it anywhere. seen it a million times. no mistake. well there was nothing there last time i had checked and the wallet had been in my pocket all that time between.

well i looked at the bit of paper which was folded in half all it said was these exact words

"And I miss home very much, Yes I miss home very "


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Just be thankful

Tonight, if you’re out on the town, or maybe just still awake watching tv, or maybe you have a late night shift at work, but anyway if you’re awake at 1am tonight do me a favour and stop for a minute and just remember my girl and just think how really lucky you are to have all the things you have and to be able to enjoy this wonderful life and to have all the days ahead of you ready and waiting to be filled with new adventures and joy.

Just one minute to remember her and be thankful. 1am Sunday morning, Saturday night ok.

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come on

do somoething!
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Late last night I lay thinking about what we did this same night six years ago. I couldn’t believe you’d never seen a shooting star, never spent a night sleeping out-doors or never been in a row boat. Well, drifting on the lake at midnight, eyes on Cassiopeia, you did it all. Maybe that was the best possible way to end your very last summer.

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The very last picture.


Lindsay. 4th September, Just two days before she died. The very last picture.

This is a photo of a photo, wish I had a better copy of it. In fact, I wish I had more pictures of her and of us together.

I lost her before all phones had camera’s and everyone was taking pictures of everything. The few I do have are treasures though.

Isn’t she beautiful? Just look at her, there’s no sign at all of the storm that’s coming.

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Almost 6 years

Lindsay Hand Print.

The night before her life support was finally turned off, I cut a lock of hair and made a print of her hand.

The two things together are amongst my most treasured possessions.

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Some things change, some stay the same.

I know you’re smiling with me.
I hope you’re listening and following along.
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I know you’re smiling too.

im never going to forget or leave you behind where ever I go..
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A Strange weekend

well, it’s been a strange few days. I’ve thought about you a lot. I’ve thought about a lot of things these last few days. As usual the thoughts that made me happiest were also the ones that hurt the most. Is it always going to be like that? Everything that makes me smile also making me feel sick to my stomach, every half day of happiness only leaving me feeling worse when it has to end? Worth it none the less. At least there’s that.

I had the strangest dream. The three of us were walking up the street towards our house, I think it was really early morning. i remember the shadows were really long so maybe. The bulbs I planted in the lawn for you after the funeral had grown and taken over the garden. There was 1000s of tiny dwarf daffodils covering the grass and bunching thickly up against walls of the house. The front door way hanging off it’s hinges and the flowers were growing into the dark hallway. I could just see your trainers, the red adidas ones, right where you always left them, just inside the door. The house was derelict, the windows boarded, the roof half gone, the beams all black and rotten.

But there were flowers everywhere. J said you could tell no one had been there for ages because the flowers were so thick and undisturbed. We all agreed we wouldn’t go in because the house was getting used to being empty.

I’m not sure what I find hardest, the dreams or the waking.

I miss you angel.





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All I have Left.

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Another Conversation

October 19th 2008

Hope you’re listening angel.

I’ve just been sitting here remembering a day. Years ago now, but clear in my minds eye. A memory as vivid as if I could see the ghost of that day happening all around me, superimposed over this empty room.

We were in Bearwood then, it was just before we finally packed the studio into boxes for the move to our new house. Our first real home together. Most of the studio was unwired, most of the racks were empty, and I remember how red the last of the days light was as it shone through the little attic window. You remember how excited we were? It was a melancholy night though if I remember. We’d talked a lot about leaving Bearwood. About leaving the place where we’d first met. Where it all began.

The last thing we’d left to pack were the mixing desk, amps and speakers. Just so we listen to music while we tidied up. Funny, I can’t remember any of the songs we played. In fact the only song I do remember was the very last I ever heard in that room.

Oh Lindsay, do you remember. I want so badly to be able to share this memory with you. That rather than just writing it here, we were holding hands reminiscing.  I can’t remember us ever mentioning it since that day. I’m not sure I even remembered myself until today.

Do you remember, just before we unplugged the last cables and sent the room into silence. Do you remember picking up the microphone, smiling at me, and singing ‘Songbird’?

"for you, there’ll be no crying

for you, the sun will be shining

‘cus I feel that when I’m with you its alright

I know its right

and the songbirds keep singing like they know the score

and I love you, I love you, I love you like never before"


Then you, still holding the mic, humming the music and smiling at me. You never did make it all the way though the last chorus. That next hour we didn’t manage much more tidying up did we my angel.


"To you I would give the world

to you I’d never be cold

‘cus I feel that I’m with you its alright

I know its right

and the songbirds keep singing like they know the score

and I love you, I love you, I love you like never before

like never before.


And I wish you all the love in the world

but most of all

I wish it from myself "


Oh Lindsay, it’s breaks my heart.

I miss you my angel.


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to a lost angel.

Fifty ways to grieve your lover


Glenn Williams

Dedicated to my angel, Lindsay Turner

01/02/1973 – 06/09/2003

We thought we had all the time in the world,
yet we never wasted a second.
Wisdom is learnt on the desolate hillside


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Just another normal day

and I miss you like it all only happened yesterday.

need you home with me my angel.


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Happy Birthday Angel


Can’t believe you’d have been 35 today. I still miss you every single day.

Happy Birthday Lindz


Monday for wealth, Tuesday for health,

Wednesday the best day of all.

Thursday for crosses, Friday for losses,

Saturday no day at all.



O were I but where I would be,

There would I be where I am not:

For where I am would I not be,

And where I would be I can not

The Nursery Pernassus, 1784


By many forms of artifice the gods defeat our plans


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Lindsay Turner 1975 – 2003

I miss you so much angel

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I’m sorry for all the things we’ll never do

for all the places we never got to see

I’m sorry for the all times we’ll never share

and for all the children we’ll never have

I’m sorry for the days we can’t spend together

and for the dumb jokes I’ll never tell you

I’m sorry that I can’t come find you where you are

and for the fact I can’t bring you home

I’m sorry I can’t believe you’re up there somewhere

and i’m sorry I can’t cope here on my own

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four years without you

Well it’s been four years today since I lost you and I miss you as much as ever. I can’t face going to the crem today angel. I know you’ll understand.

Love you as much as ever.



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Missing you

Even when I’m laughing. x

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Some things stay the same.

I miss you so much tonight angel. I’ve no one else to tell so here I am again. I still don’t know what to do without you Lindsay; I’m trying but it’s not getting any easier. Lindsay and me, sitting in a tree, K .I .S .S .I .N .G. 

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Fifty ways to grieve your lover


Glenn Williams


Dedicated to my angel, Lindsay Turner

01/02/1973 – 06/09/2003

We thought we had all the time in the world,

yet we never wasted a second.

Wisdom is learnt on the desolate hillside



One cannot discount the unpleasant things of this world by merely looking the other way

Hector Hugh Munro

She’s dead. There’s no getting around it, she’s really never coming home. I know this to be one hundred percent true. After all, it was me that first called 999 in the early hours of that Saturday morning, it was I who failed miserably to administer the kiss-of-life moments later. I spent a week, twenty-four seven, by her bedside in the intensive care unit, and it was me who stood vigil and prayed over her through the final night. The following morning I even helped the nurse remove the hardware from her failing body, and at the very end it was I who sang to her during her last half hour. I held her close as, shadow thin and diminishing – yet with strength enough to break my heart, she slowly slipped away. Then it was over, in the time it takes to cast a glance I knew, my angel was gone for ever.

I carried one quarter of her coffin through the crematorium doors. It was me that told the minister what to say, and later it was me that first carried, and then buried the tiny oak casket containing her remains. I’d even chosen the plot. It was I who said the first goodbye at her open grave, and it was me who paid her the first visit one week later. My tears were the first to fall. All these events happened and were burned into my memory. I’ve been branded by them. Its really not likely that I’m ever going to forget.

What I want to know is this – how long is it going to be before I finally remember not to make two cups of coffee in the morning? It may sound trivial, but believe me, I’m only half a dozen redundant espressos away from calling the Samaritans.

The rhythmic gurgle of the coffee machine as it slowly drips into our two small cups, the satisfying swirl as the crema starts to form. Too much sugar, a gentle stir, and she’s dying all over again as I notice what I’ve done. Pain, every bit as sharp and disabling as I felt when I closed her eyes and gave her a final kiss goodbye. This is not a good way to start a day.

The funny thing is, I’m dreading the morning that I walk into the kitchen and instinctively reach for only one cup.


Excerpt from chapter 1

When The Devil Drives

Our main business in not to see what lies dimly at a distance, but to do what lies clearly at hand.

Sir William Osler

Although we cannot turn away the wind, we can soften it; we can temper it, if I may say so, to the shorn lambs.

Charles Dickens

It’s not as though I’d never lied to her before. Little white lies, justifiable falsehoods, just enough to keep the machine oiled. She always knew of course, always said she could read me like a book. It was true, she always could. Often she’d just smile, tell me how she’d appreciated the gesture, that I needn’t try to carry the weight of her whole world on my shoulders. I’d tell her she was right, that in future we’d face things together, that I’d stop always trying to protect her. Little white lies.

A lie, however small, however vindicable, is said to scar the soul. My problem is I’m a heathen. A non-believer. Irreligious, and spiritually barren. As much able to believe in the soul as I am in pots of gold at the end of rainbows. But I’m scarred non the less. I felt the knife inside me twisting even as I spoke the words. No Ave Maria’s, no confessional forgiveness or prostrate lamentations can cure me. In fact I’ve no religious cop-out’s at all. I must admit, there are times when I envy the deluded, the water-into-wine brigade, the Sunday morning sin bleachers. How comforting it must be to truly believe that however loathsome ones behavior the mere act of confession wipes the slate clean. I tell you, I could do with some of that. I’m too much Dawkins and not enough New Testament, it’s never seemed a disadvantage before.

It just seems wrong. After all those years of trust and shared hardship. All those battles fought side by side: an invincible two-strong army. That it should end like this. The last words she would ever hear, my parting line, lies.

I wonder if she noticed? Did she, as she’d done so often before, take comfort in my attempts at reassurance? That I could deal with. Does anyone asking that kind of question ever want a truthful answer?

“Glenn, am I dying?”

I knew she was. In fact I’d thought I’d lost her only moments before. She’d been slipping in and out of consciousness, although she didn’t seem to have noticed. Each time I saw her eyes empty I’d refused to let her go.

Those brief moments, though lifetimes long, were oddly less frightening. It was only then that I had clarity. I had purpose. I knew my responsibilities. I knew what my angel needed me to do, and my adrenalin told me I could do it.

I’ll never know whether it was my attempts at reviving her that snapped her back from the brink, all I know is she came back. Three times she faded, and three times she returned. Each time the journey had taken longer, each time her return was less complete. The first thing I learnt that night is there’s no dignity in dying. Death, that’s an all together different matter. Death brings serenity, it’s inanimate perfection. Death is a kindness, it’s dying that should be feared. That night Lindsay was more than just afraid, she was terrified. So was I.


Excerpt from interlude 1


Just noticed the time. Here I am 462 days later, to the second almost, if I close my eyes I can almost hear you calling me. one day I’m going to snap, just run into the street screaming.

Do you remember when I first took you home to see mom? It was snowing. We walked along the canal tow-path. Remember that old couple who said ‘good morning’? you smiled at them, squeezed my hand, and said “yep, it really is”. Always thought that’d be us one day, old, still walking in the snow, still holding hands, still wearing stupid hats and childish grins.

Is it possible to miss something that never got to happen?

That was a good day though wasn’t it babe. We never did need much. Just as well really. Whatever happened to that red hat of yours? Not seen it in ages. Can still picture you waiting at the front door in Bearwood, always knew it was you because of that hat. Feels a lifetime ago babe. Before you moved in, before everything.

Do you ever watch me when I’m walking by the canal here? Often wonder if you do. It always makes me think of that day. Suppose you know that already though. Do me a favour Linz, next time I’m walking there and you’re watching, make it snow again.

I miss you darlin’ – even when I’m laughing.

Come on honey, type me an answer. Knew you’d never make a good ghost, bet you’re still trying to decide what to say.


Excerpt from Chapter 2

A Debt of Tears

For the thing which I greatly feared is come upon me,

and that which I was afraid of is come onto me.

Job 4, 24

Go to sleep my little baby

You’re so sweet my little baby

It’s time to run along with your red shoes on

Don’t need no other but my baby


“She’s very poorly.” The ambulance driver delivered her line with a softness so obviously rehearsed that I almost felt sorry for her. I was sure she wanted to believe it as much as I did. Perhaps her training should have included the occasional Poker school? As it was a thousand Tells were adding the caveat; “You do know what a euphemism is don’t you son?”

“She’s not fucking poorly she’s dead, an’ if not, her brain’s fucking jelly, you know it as well as I do.”. That was what I wanted to say, what my mind was screaming at her. A dull monotone, ‘Ye’, was thankfully all I could manage. If I’d been able to convert heart into voice I may well have been walking the rest of the way to the hospital. Although, probably not.

Oddly, and cruelly I think, I’d not been allowed to travel with Lindsay, but had been made to follow behind in a second ambulance. I’m not sure which hurt more; watching Lindsay being sped away, or passing her ambulance a few moments later, parked up and I suppose giving my girl a few more volts. I should have been there, by her side as always. Still holding her hand, letting the current flow through us both, as it always had. As I watched the flashing lights grow smaller in the ambulances’ rear view mirror, I remember thinking; ‘Quality cinematography, excellent use of visual metaphor.’ Understandably the rest of the journey was completed in silence.

And so, at a little after 2am, I arrived at Sandwell General Hospital. My first thoughts, ‘Well, it’s not as clean as Holby City.’

The small hours of a Saturday morning in Accident and Emergency departments country wide are depressingly similar. The drunk, the depressed, the dispossessed, the brawlers, bingers and wingers, the joy-riders, and pill poppers, the beat-up and the passed out, the crack heads, the smack heads, the cocaine sniffers, the stoned, the pissed, the bruised and the battered – all the dregs. In fact all the beautiful party people, all the happy-hour fall-out, they all land on A&E. Maybe amongst this human detritus you’ll spot one person who’s not venomously complaining, who’s not over eager for another punch-up, who doesn’t stink of vomit, piss and alcohol, but I doubt it.

Through this sea of filth and excess I watched the grey heap that once passed as Lindsay Claire Turner become the eye of a storm of angels. God bless those red eyed, worn-out miracle workers. The meek don’t deserve to inherit the earth, I say let the nurses have it.


Excerpt from Chapter 2

A Debt of Tears

But something in her eyes was so much younger. Instantly making you feel compelled to coddle and protect her. I looked into her eyes then, like a kingfisher peering into the depths of a clouded still-water searching for signs of life darting below the surface. I found none. After a moments pause, and with the full weight of what had just happened almost pulling me to my knees, I closed her eyes. Using thumb and middle finger I softly caressed her eye-lids shut. She didn’t look asleep, her swollen lids refused to fully close. Maybe she was still looking at me, making sure I was still there. I slipped my hand behind her head, ran trembling fingers into her hair, and for the final time touched her now ivory lips to mine. As my tears ran down her cheek I saw her transformed, a grade one miracle, a stone cold Madonna crying before her spellbound congregation.

A memory came then, the malevolent spirit that hides beneath my consciousness lashed out: Slipping into bed one freezing December night, still cold from her dash from bathroom to bedroom, she’d folded herself around me. As she’d pulled me closer, her chilled flesh only adding to the fire that was growing inside me, she’d whispered, “best served at room temperature”.


Excerpt from Chapter 3

The Leaves Were Turning

Every man can get through till nightfall

Robert Louis Stevenson

It’s now been eight weeks since Lindsay was carried out through the door of our little home, and two years to the day since I first carried her in through it. I’d little realized just how much the drama of the past weeks had sustained me. High on adrenalin and wrapped in a blanket of confusion I’d survived. Only now, with the mournful callers all departed, their cards removed from the mantel and the last of their gifted flowers wilting, has true emptiness entered. It’s engulfed me, and I’m drowning.

On hearing my name people no longer imagine the man they knew, only mourn the woman they’ve lost. I carry the mark of the cross. To look into my eyes is to acknowledge death: I’m a reminder of what all men want to forget. I’m an awkward situation, an uncomfortable conversation. I’m a man with a double shadow. I understand this may well not be the way things are, but I also know it is the way things feel.


All of Chapter 5

Parting On The Level

I hate Christmas

Anthony J Hancock

Diary Entry – 25th December 2003. 12:01am

Phoned Samaritans. Engaged. Somehow that made me feel better.


Excerpt from the epilogue


Ruine hath taught me thus to ruminate,

That time will come and take my love away.

This thought is as a death which cannot choose,

But weep to have that which it fears to loose.

William Shakespeare, Sonnet 64,11-14


A man is a small thing,

And the night is large and full of wonders

Lord Dunsany, The Laughter of the Gods

The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion which stands at the cradle of true art and true science. Whoever does not know it, and can no longer wonder, no longer marvel, is as good as dead, and his eyes are dimmed. It was the experience of mystery – even if mixed with fear – that engendered religion. A knowledge of the existence of something we cannot penetrate, our perceptions of the profoundest reason and the most radiant beauty, which only in their most primitive forms are accessible to our minds – it is this knowledge and this emotion that constitute true religiosity; in this sense, and in this sense alone I am a deeply religious man.

Albert Einstein

Ah love, could thou and I with fate conspire,
To grab this sorry scheme of things entire,
Would not we shatter it to bits, and then
Remold it, nearer to the hearts desire.

The Rubaiyat, Quatrain XCIX


Thanks you all for taking the time to read this. I’d love to hear any of your comments.

just email me at glenn@tinylion.co.uk





















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Back Again

Hi everyone.

Somehow my space got deleted. I’m just about to start rebuilding it. I lost all my posts, pictures and friends etc. So please drop back soon when I’ve got it back up and running again.

Hope you all had a great Christmas and new year.



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