I’m always sheepish when I see friends for the first time in a while – and it wasn’t even that long of a while! But I don’t know; I’m not very good at hellos, and I’m atrocious at goodbyes. I think as I get older I’m increasingly wary of sentimentality. A cautious counter, I think, to the oversentimentality of years gone by – of alienating people, weirding people out with my emotional intensity. I’ve learned, quite subconsciously it seems, to say less. Maybe that’s what happens to a lot of boys when they’re little – maybe that’s why so many men are so stoic and silent and struggle to know what’s going on in their own heads. For some reason it happened to me much later on. I never know how much emotion is appropriate, so it’s safer to just be pragmatic.
Continue readingAuthor: Dan Hackett
California Pt 1 | Scaredy Cat
Before I went to California there was a lot of to-ing and fro-ing over whether it was a good idea. There were a few factors: after Colombia I seem to have developed some sort of post-shitshow travel anxiety, plus at 31 I was unsure whether I’d be able to keep up with the debauchery I felt sure Annie would have planned for her birthday.
Continue readingItaly | Serenità
Italy in autumn – hills that roll with the regularity of those back home, but rise a little higher, sink a little lower. Tall cypress trees looming from the mist that sits in the mornings like water in a basin. A cemetery on a lone hilltop at night, flickering in orange candlelight. Deer in the fields, roaming in pairs. Hunters in camo gear, also in pairs, loading rifles onto quad bikes and sipping from flasks. Hares in the forest. Porcupines too – as big as a dog, fans of white quills like monsters.
Continue readingLondon | Oh Just Chatting Away Really
I’ve started writing on my hand again – I used to do that when I was a teenager. I also did it in my early twenties. Then I stopped for a while. Not sure why I stopped – I just did. And now, at 31, the back of my left hand says ‘Call Vic’, because I need to call her, along with a hastily added ‘+ Dad’ underneath, because I need to call him too.
Continue readingLondon | Tubby, Or Not Tubby
I continue my slow, sensual crip walk into eccentricity. I’m certainly going through a bit of a ‘phase’, but I’m not really sure how to define it. I’m just sort of… exploring things. Finding new pursuits.
Continue readingA Sliver of Book, A Side of Chatter
Alright. Let us begin with:
The Siege of Pugglemunt, Chapter Seventeen: An Excerpt
They had crested the horizon: the view was clear from the Magic Tower. In one great, rippling, flesh-and-leather coloured mass, the dark horde was approaching from the west, moving fast across the fields surrounding Pugglemunt. Thin plumes of black smoke went up from every home and hovel they rode past. I was glad I’d given the order to summon all surrounding villagers to the keep. Actually, hang on a second—
“Quince, did I give the order to summon all surrounding villagers to the keep?”
“No, my liege.”
“Oh GOD. SHIT.”
Continue readingLondon | Gandalf! Motorcycles! Butternut Squash!
And that’s it! I’m not going to publish anymore of my story because (and I know this sounds mad, yes, pipe down) I want to do… something with it. I’m not sure what, but I think it’s very fun and good and I am in love with writing it and I dunno, maybe I’ll try get it published.
It probably won’t get published. But hey – gotta try.
Continue readingThe Siege of Pugglemunt Pt 14 (party)
Chapter Ten: In Which We DANCE!
“HoiST ME Up LADs!”
The feast had gotten out of hand in a big way. And well – who gave a shit! In fear that we might all be killed the next morning, nobody was worried about their waistline; not one of us, not one Pugglemuntian gave a thought to their hangover. We’d gorged and sung and kissed and fought, and the mead had flowed like summer wind, and I’d drunk a vat of wine and tied my hair up in a ponytail and told Glob I wanted to marry her. Everybody was laughing and mad, everything was woozy and whirring. Drums! Bagpipes! A roaring big fire and mandolins! Mando-fucking-lins!
Continue readingThe Siege of Pugglemunt Pt 13 (murder)
Chapter Nine: In Which I Am Accused Of Murder
Sir Bashful had already been and gone by the time I rode over to check in at the Catapultery. He wasn’t at the trebuchets on the ramparts either, though he’d clearly been there: they were stocked and loaded and ready to wang some serious beef, by which I mean throw boulders. It was a shame; Sir Bashful was a dab-hand at the trebuchets, a true artisan when it came to convincing bits of wood to sling heavy objects enormous distances. I realised with a disappointed huff that I must have missed the calibration process, which, given that it involves testing the trebuchets by launching criminals over the horizon, is quite obviously my favourite bit.
Continue readingThe Siege of Pugglemunt Pt 12 (stables)
Chapter Eight: In Which I Loathe Regional Dialects
My old auntie, Princess Aedabog, loved horses like a nutter. Some people just do: they love horses so much it becomes the cornerstone of their whole personality. I like horses, of course, very much so, but in what I like to think is quite a relaxed way. I have the same relationship with horses as I have with, I don’t know, my own legs: I’m glad they exist, I like it when they go fast, I don’t think about them much when I’m not using them, and I curse them when they don’t work properly.
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