I'm currently reading Ian McEwan's short stories - First Love, Last Rites. I've not read anything by him before, and knowing only that he'd written Atonement, which is not really my kind of read, I was pleased to find that this book, is pretty fucked up. Macabre but ball (if I had any) achingly funny. This is my kind of read. I recommend it if you like that kind of thing, otherwise, maybe stay clear.
I've been attempting to write more stuff myself. I've always enjoyed writing, but often find that writers block has turned into a whole blockade and is un-shiftable. I'm currently in the midst of writing a couple of gallery(work) related pieces and I think that has helped to shift some of my brain rubble. I might share some things when they're more finished, but for now I'll leave this silly piece that is based on true events.
The right hand bookshelf harbours a secret that if revealed, would leave all inanimate household objects quaking in their hypothetical boots. On the top shelf, amongst the dusty cobwebs and year’s worth of allergy inducing particles, is the graveyard of defunct and broken lamps. It’s a sorry sight, shades skew-wiff, hung low, no meaning to their existence. A lava lamp sheepishly hides behind the bedside lamp, slightly ashamed that it’s no longer able to fulfil it’s purpose of recreating that trippy hedonistic vibe of the 70s. Banded together like outcasts, unsure of their fate, not knowing when they may be discarded altogether. For now, they are safe in the knowledge that they remain there, until the time comes when I myself, stop wondering why they were ever put there in the first place and banish them to a fate darker than that of a broken bulb.