Tag Archives: holiday

You’re always one decision away from an entirely different life…



I know I’m supposed to communicate via a lawyer, but I was ringing to say that you can keep the house…

No, it’s not a trick – take it, but there’ll be no more alimony payments…

You’ve already got all our savings…

No, I quit yesterday…

because I was only doing it to fund your lavish lifestyle…

So, have me declared bankrupt…

What do you want me to say – There’s no more money!

Here’s an idea – How bout you get a job?

They’re clearly not my kids and they both hate me…

OK, well good luck with that. I’m gonna throw this phone in the sea and go fishing…


Written for: Friday Fictioneers


Filed under Flash fiction

My Expletive-&-Knife-Themed Mini-Break…

Is there anything more likely to bring nations together and bestow a collective sense of hatred than alfresco dining being interrupted by a mime artist? If there is I have yet to encounter it.

We all saw him approach – chalky white faced in a leotard and top hat – the destroyer of dreams (the previous morning it had been a euphonium player murdering the hits of Taylor Swift, but this would be way worse…)

But wait, that morning there was a hero in our midst. A fellow diner – German, bearded and flamboyant, jumped from his seat into the path of the cash extrapolator and:

  • Mimed eating his breakfast and rubbed his belly to indicate that he was content.
  • Mimed being trapped in a box.
  • Mimed stabbing the mime artist to death.
  • Held out his hand as if demanding payment.

To add insult to injury one of his friends mimed laughing and clapping (without his hands making contact).

The mime artist mumbled some obscenities under his breath as he walked away, prompting the German to say something that was clearly along the lines of: ‘He can speak – It’s a miracle!’

I would dearly love to take this busker-repelling tactic back with me to Blighty, but alas I am English. Such a direct, grumble-free approach simply isn’t cricket.


Back at the colonial guesthouse in which I was staying my host asked me if I had yet seen Pablo Picasso’s ghost.

‘He lived in that building right there,’ she said, pointing to an adjacent window, ‘and his apparition can often be seen walking about, trapped in time.’

I smiled, but she seemed deadly serious.

Later that evening her husband called me to the veranda.

‘Martine, come quickly, regard, Pablo Picasso’s ghost, trapped in time…’

I stared down into an empty window.

‘…He was there a moment ago, but left when I called you over.’

Once again my mirth was met with utter sincerity.

‘Wait…he will return…Pablo Picasso…trapped in time.’

An old bald man with white side-burns and a stripy top came to the window, and for a second I thought I was seeing the aforementioned apparition.

‘What’s that in his hand?’ the landlord asked playfully, ‘Is it a pencil? Is it a brush? Hey Pablo…PABLO!’

Pablo flipped us the bird and slammed the shutters.

In the morning I was packing to leave when I noticed a large glob of chewing gum stuck to the sheets. A brief attempt at removing the offending item proved fruitless. I would need a sharp implement of some description. A perusal of the kitchen yielded a large knife. This did the job nicely. On the way back to return the item of cutlery, shirtless and armed, I encountered the landlady. Her warm features grew cold.

Justifications scrolled through my retarded mind:

…I thought I saw Pablo.

…I’m sleep-cooking.

…That’s the U-bend unblocked!

‘Buenos Dias,’ I beamed like a sociopath before making good my escape…


Filed under Flash fiction

Mercy Killing…

2015-02-09 14.34.38

I eavesdrop on the couple sitting next to me. Two things become apparent:

…They are planning the ultimate holiday.

…They hate each other.

It is the hatred of familiarity – barbed leaping impatience that turns what should be joyous into something tense and spiteful.

Their plight is fascinating to me and I begin typing out their story – small and discrete at first, but then, possessed of a curious desire to reveal my voyeurism, I increase the font size so that they cannot fail to see.

‘Why are you always going off on pointless tangents? Don’t close the itinerary! I hadn’t finished…that man’s writing down what we say…Look…I want you to do something about it…Because it’s creepy…God you’re so weak!’

In even larger font I type:



My phone rings which has the effect of shielding me from conflict

‘Hey…Nothing much…Sure, I’ll pop around.’

As I chat the couple leave separately.

I have been immeasurably cruel.

Or I have done them a great kindness.

Or both.


Filed under Flash fiction, short story

Bang Putao

…At 3am, somewhere between Singapore and Adelaide, I decided to write a postcard to the guy who sits next to me at work. For the purposes on anonymity we’ll refer to him as ‘Vegan Graham’ – a masochist developer who gave me his address on the proviso that I bombarded him with abuse.
‘You are aware that this is not a normal request?’ I asked, to which he replied ‘But I like it,’ accompanied with a Gollum-esque snarl.
By this point in the journey I hadn’t slept for nigh-on thirty hours and was starting to question my powers of reasoning. I noticed that the guy next to me was watching the same film and we had a cheeky wager as to how many people Liam Neeson would kill by the end (I got closest with 26 – You have now been spared the need to watch ‘Taken 2’)
‘Dear Vegan Graham,’ I began, ‘the only thing that would make this holiday more perfect is if your corpse washed up on the beach in front of me.’
A bold opening I felt. The man next to me agreed. We swapped notes before composing a further stanza:
Having successfully harvested your DNA I am now in the process of manufacturing large quantities of a potent musk with the intention of chumming the coastline of southern Australia. It is my heartfelt desire that the predatory fish who inhabit these waters will then develop a taste for vegan flesh and go on to hunt both you and all of your kind. Next year I shall holiday in Thailand, the following year India, slowly but surely luring the ravenous beasts across the ocean. The intervening period will grant we enough time of overcome how to get at you in a land-locked English county.’DSCN1133
A week into the trip I booked a 6-day trek into the outback. Stepping onto the bus that first morning it was immediately clear to me that I was the eldest person by at least a decade. The other people on the trek regarding me with suspicion.
‘Can it talk? / Is it incontinent?’ their fearful young eyes seemed to plead. When I said ‘Hi,’ well…that was simply too much. They began to poke and prod the wizened old seer and ponder how it was still alive. I gave my age (36) to which one replied ‘Oh…that’s…not too bad.’
A few days in I was able to repay the compliment. Arriving at ‘Coober Pedy’ – a mining town populated exclusively with murderers the very same individual accosted my at length about the political situation in China.
‘How old are you?’ I asked.
‘Why are you discussing macro-economics? You should be out chasing girls. Here, drink this.’ A beer was bestowed upon him.
The young man regarding the gift as if I had just presented him with a unicorn made of heroin. ‘If you think I am ready?’ He tingled with excitement.
‘Clearly not,’ I replied and snatched back the beverage.
In the days that followed we slept under the stars in swags (a cross between a sleeping bag and a tent), saw stunning landscapes and began to bond. I in turn was accepted into the group as one might a benevolent teacher or creepy uncle.
On the third day, in a monumental scheduling error, we were served kangaroo in pitta straight after a visit to a baby roo orphanage. Two German girls tried to complain about the mishap but, being teenagers, only knew how to say ‘I’m bored,’ and ‘It’s too hot.’ I tried to placate them, but succeeded only in further exacerbated matters when a novel about the Third Reich dropped out of my suitcase. In the ensuing hilarity / tears my thoughts returned to Graham:

‘I am going to deliberately put insufficient postage on this card so that you have to pay to receive my insults you son of a bitch.’
At a pit-stop in the middle of nowhere a sun-burnt man pulled up alongside our bus on a super-bike and asked if we had any food or water he could buy. I suggested to the tour guide that we take the man’s details and he was obviously ill-equipped to be traveling long distances in obscene temperatures.
‘Natural selection my friend,’ was his only response.
Finally we reached the zenith of our travels – ‘Uluru’ (Ayers Rock). It was a breath-taking event to watch the sun explode across the horizon, and there, amidst the beauty and splendour of enlightenment, I was able to finish Graham’s message.
‘You owe me two dollars for this postcard asshole.’

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Sri Lankan Trilogy

Nick’s flight would be arriving in the morning which gave me sixteen hours to kill in the capital. Having flagged down a tuk-tuk (scooter crossed with a pram) I went exploring and quickly found myself in the bustling market district of Pettah. Stopping for a nano second I was immediately accosted by a wiry individual who offered to take my picture.

‘Oh, no thank you,’ I replied. ‘My camera is in the hotel.’

‘We go back to your hotel. I take your picture. You buy me beer.’

‘I don’t want a beer.’

‘I want one.’

‘Well buy one.’

‘No. You buy. I take your picture.’

‘You didn’t take my picture!’

‘Not my fault you forgot your camera.’

‘I didn’t forget my camera. Go away.’


It took a full out sprint to lose him; weaving between the stalls and disgruntled custodians. The street ended and ahead of me the Indian Ocean stretched out. On the beach a halal barbecue was in full swing. I ordered something called Beef Kottah and was seated at a plastic table next to a chubby gentleman crammed into a misshapen suit. He said hello and handed me a business card that stated he was Mohammed Ali, a spice merchant from Mumbai.

‘I am here on a conference,’ he continued. ‘You give me your phone number. I give you a real good deal on spice.’

‘I don’t tend to buy my spice in bulk so it’s probably not worth your while.’

‘You give me your number anyway?’

‘What are the smallest units you sell in?’

‘Five kilogram bags.’

‘See, I’m never gonna use that much spice.’

‘You never know.’

‘No, I’m pretty sure. Take it easy Mohammed.’

‘If you’re not going to give me your number, give me back my business card.’

I returned to the hotel and found its bar brimming with Brits (over en masse for the cricket). A particularly inebriated Wolverhamptonite greeted me with the immortal words: ‘Won’t you join me in a sorrow-drowning drink. I’ve just been on a disastrous date – hired a helicoptor and an accordian player to impress a local girl, but the accordian couldn’t be heard over the rotary blades – total write-off.’

He took great offence at the suggestion that he was telling porkies and followed up with how, having been declared bankrupt, he couldn’t get incapacity benefit for a (faked) bad back, so had caught a ferry to Belgium and, on the return trip, thrown his passport in the sea and pretended to be Croation so as to seek asylum in the UK.

‘My real name is Mark,’ he stated. ‘I can’t tell you my assumed name.’

‘Shouldn’t that be the other way around?’


‘Shouldn’t you be keeping your real name a secret?’

‘What an earth are you talking about?’

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