Firing up an old video game is like opening a time capsule. Continue reading
Lockdown Diary: A Germaphobic Jaunt
Yesterday Jeanne and I took our daily lockdown walk, and we went a little further than usual. It was March the last time I walked further than the Arches down Gloucester Road. Since then, all our late afternoon strolls have seen us weaving through suburbs, exploring sleepy avenues and cul-de-sacs. On a whim, however, last night we decided to continue on, right the way down to the harbourside we’ve not seen in so very long. What a bleeding mistake that was. Continue reading
Lockdown Diary: God Help Me, I’ve Started Appreciating People’s Lawns
Today is my 34th day indoors. Well… ish. Continue reading
Lockdown Diary: Bald and Unproductive
Well, I burst at the first hurdle, didn’t I? After ending my last diary entry with the optimistic ‘I think I’ll write again tomorrow ?’, I did not write a word for a full week.
I did not do it because I did not feel like doing it, and instead of being productive I got drunk for three days in a row. It was a choice that made sense at the time. Continue reading
Lockdown Diary: Yeah It’s Happening
My mum recommended I write while we’re all in lockdown. So here we find ourselves! Continue reading
Jeanne
Hello again. Continue reading
Bristol: Lonely Boy
How do you meet people? Continue reading
Bristol: Poison and Punch Ups and Jacob Marley’s Ghost
Plenty has happened in a relatively short space of time – relative, that is, specifically to the age of me, Dan, rather than the Byzantine Empire or the moon or a housefly, because these things would throw that qualifier way out of whack. Come to think of it, I wish I’d not used it. But then if I only said ‘in a short space of time’, you might have thought I meant twelve minutes, or a nanosecond, and that would be ridiculous. So here, let me try again: a lot has happened in the last two weeks (Earth weeks, naturally). Continue reading
Roo
We’re driving to work in the bush, the morning air cool and the windows down. Seven of us are crammed into the car, sitting on each other’s laps clutching our lunchboxes. There’s a cloudless sky above and a long day of fruit picking ahead. Bouncing reggae on the radio has us feeling breezy. Continue reading
Bristol: A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Dan
I’ve always felt one of the surest signs of a writer in a rut is that they start writing about writing. Hi there, I’m Dan.