My God

Your unfailing love is priceless

Your righteousness like mighty mountains

Your justice deeper than deep, deep, seas

Your faithfulness is boundless

And Your love reaches even me


In the shadow of your wings

I find rest, shelter and peace

The Light of this world

Humbled to walk as us

Punished as a living sacrifice


I owe You so much

Unworthy as I am, You love me

Sinner before You, Your grace envelopes

I confess, I heal, born anew

Broken hearted, remade soft

inspired by Psalm 36


“What was that thing, our Theresa said about cooking pasta?”

“Darren, what are you wittering on about. Theresa can’t boil an egg. She knows nothing about food, never mind something forreign like pasta. Remember when we had her and Terry round for tea last month, she accused me of using tomatoes that were off? You know, the little yellow ones. She wouldn’t eat the salad and then smashed one of my best dishes washing up. Honestly Darren! Look, get out of the kitchen and set the table, your boss’ll be here soon.”

“No, Caro, listen, it wasn’t pasta exactly, mmm, oh yeah, it was spaghetti, is that pasta?”

“Oh Darren, bless, you really are as bad as your sister. Yes of course spaghetti is pasta but it comes in tins with the sauce already with it. Tsk, Darren, gerroff me,” as Darren lunged for a quick cuddle by the sink.

“Oh wait Caro, it’s all coming back to me. Last April there was that programme about April Fools Day hoaxes. They had on the man what shrunk people to get in the aeroplanes, he’s dead isn’t he?”

“Yes, Darren, love please I need to find my recipe for this pasta surprise, it was in ‘Bella’,”

“Well on that programme they had a black and white clip, there was a guy in Italy, and they were harvesting the spaghetti off the trees. I remember cos Terry didn’t think it was hoax and we all laughed.”

“Oh yeah, I know what you are talking about now, a button fell off my blouse I laughed so hard, pass me that tin of mushrooms, love.”

“Theresa said, ”

“Darren give it a rest, Mr Plimkin will be here in five minutes and I haven’t even started the “Angel Delight”

“Caro, Theresa said boiling water, salt, twist the spaghetti throw it in and after seven minutes take one piece out and throw it at the wall. If it is cooked it sticks to the wall.”

“Darren Cooper, you really take the biscuit, if you think for one minute I am sending a piece of pasta to stick on my beautiful turquoise tiles, after spending, oh yeah well anyway, no, I just need to find the recipe, it’s here somewhere. Now, go, shoo, and remember to take their coats, love, go on, I love you.”

Meanwhile outside, Mr Plimkin and the glamorous Mrs P were arriving. “Sweets, please eat a little of everything, it is going to be dreadful, but we can’t be seen to be snooty, I need young Darren on my side with all the redundancies going off we need to keep a couple of young fellows, and he is one of the least offensive. I overheard him on the phone with his wife Caroline, they are serving Angel Delight and mandarin oranges. One shudders to think what the entree will be.”

“Just you wait Plimpy, I had better get that spa week next month. You do ask an awful lot of me. Come on then, let’s get it over with.”

chat randomly

Meeting a person today got me thinking about the characters around me. How I was already weaving them into three dimensional characters in my head for later use. I am more and more looking at motive when people speak, some really sound shining lights I know speak from their heart engaging with my heart and the conversation flows, the interaction is one of shared love and the outcome is always positive. Other people I meet are fodder for my imagination. Meet four of them:

Character 1: A middle-aged man, single, has felt deep loss in the past, recent pain, poor but aspirational in thought. Short and rotund, never seen in jeans, always on the lookout for the right person to spend rest of life with. Works in civil service, Always thinks he is right, men should be leaders, women followers. Exercises by walking, speaking three languages, doesn’t read, opinionated. Teaches Spanish for adult learners Name: Russell

Character 2: An earthmother, five kids, children centre of world, uses corporal punishment, aspirational for children, married, SAHM, blow-in, cheery, positive, has faced discrimination in early life, travels widely, has issues with church, always dresses well, make up, hair respectable, always available, do anything, on committees in local area. Struggles in the area of her marriage, never has time for herself and is dismissed for being a SAHM. Has not felt pain of loss, tall and willowy. Sees good in every situation and person. Name: Bridie

Character 3: Married younger man, recent pain, impurely altruistic, tall and weedy, arms too long for body like Marfan’s. Self employed, cheats on taxes, cheats on wife, cheats. Two kids under five, points out everyone’s errors, doesn’t see his own, zenophobic borderline racist in public, in private: racist. Stalks young women until they succomb to his charisma.  Name: Jamie

Character 4: Wife of character 3. well aware of husband’s activities. Hair a mess, wears jeans and t shirts only. Practices wicca privately, hidden past life as sex worker, had abortion, casual drug user. Publically just a wife that has let herself go. Underneath a melting pot of resentment bitterness, pain, loss. Cold, calculating, venomous, and about to change all of the aboves lives. Learning Spanish. Name: Angela

Morrigan has left

reposted here, originally posted on

Mary was a part of my life for so long, but didn’t get round to writing her whole story down on paper. There exists a short story about Mary Cronin called Morrigan Mary which can be found in the short story section  at, warning though it is not a pretty romantic tale, this girl is desperate and has no hope, it’s powerful only in it’s shock value. It was the first short story I wrote after a twenty year abyss. I was in a place of no hope when I wrote it. From that came the idea that even in desperation there has to be hope, this took Mary on many jaunts, being homeless and getting out in various forms including death, being abused and abusive and getting out in various forms including education, pregnancy and death. Mary was finally going to have a story for her in this blog, as a scrawny, malnutritioned, neglected child through various trials, as Morrigan the goddess within her surfaced more and more until she blossomed into the girl she is today.

But, and that is the clincher, but I have grown spiritually so much since first meeting the character Mary that I find I can’t continue. The reasons are many:

  • The concept of goddesses and gods – can’t go there anymore
  • the language needed in the place she is – can’t go there anymore
  • the girl and her decisions – can’t go there anymore
  • I can’t write about the hopelessness without a glimmer of hope
  • but most of –

The people, the characters I based on real people are still in that situation. “Mary” herself is no longer the fourteen year old girl, befriended …

Let Me Fit In

“Mum, it’s so unfair. All the other girls will be wearing them. I hate you.”

The words spat with venom, her hands flailing Kayle turned, marching out of the kitchen, stomping upstairs to her room, slamming the door. The sound of her throwing herself on her bed and pounding her arms and legs resonated throughout the house.

Her mother, Laura, turned off the potatoes steaming on the stovetop and slowly slumped into a chair at the kitchen table. The same table she had helped her daughter at as she struggled with long division and fractions. The same table that had hosted Kayle’s thirteenth birthday party, the same table that she sat at knitting cardigans and singing lullabies to the sleeping Kayle who she rocked at her feet. The same table at which she had washed and changed her as a baby when she had first come into their lives arriving at four weeks old, a temporary foster child, who had won our hearts and had not left, eventually she was adopted and was an only child.

She was a very sickly baby, in and out of hospital, it was over a year before Laura discovered Kayle had been born addicted to heroin. Her only link to her past was monthly visits by her birth mother, Cora, and although Laura welcomed her into their home and gave her minute details of Kayle’s progress the visits petered out by Kayle’s third birthday. Cora barely spoke, revealing little about her or her past.

As Laura reminisced, she wondered could she have made Cora feel more involved. It was Laura who could remember Kayle’s miraculous first step, her first beautiful word. Her eyes welled as she thought of these precious moments, she was so proud of her. She hadn’t anticipated this unruly brattish behaviour that marked the beginning of teenage rule in the house, she was deflated, expecting her home to be immune from pubescent tantrums, and she was hurt by the words and actions of her most beautiful gift.

How to go forward from this, were her views too old fashioned? “Oh Lord, help me now, I need your guidance, amen”, a barely audible prayer escaped Laura’s lips as she continued to mull over the problem. These hot pants that Kayle wanted to wear to youth club on Friday night were they really appropriate and was Laura an old fuddy duddy. Would Kayle’s life suddenly become as golden as these lamé high cut shorts? She didn’t want to suggest to her daughter that the world perceived girls’ attire as a statement of their willingness. Most of all she wanted Kayle protected, from predators, from unwelcome stares, from drunken teenage louts and she admitted to herself she wasn’t ready for half of Kayle’s butt to be on show for anyone, no matter what fashion and her peers dictated.

She went back into her thoughts and wondered when would be the right time to give Kayle the whole truth about Cora, her real mother. She had to be given information that she would need for adult life choices, as an ex-addict albeit without choice she would have a predisposition to addiction. Cora had died three years ago from an overdose of sleeping tablets, speed and cocaine and Laura had taken Kayle to the service, they were the only mourners and it was expediently delivered by a nameless priest, one more addict sent to the furnace. They had taken her ashes to the seaside and emptied the pot into the crashing waves whilst losing their footing and landing unceremoniously into the crashing waves. Laughing, the pot was lost and with it the memories Kayle seemed to have of her birth mother.

During Kayle’s life Laura had pieced together a jigsaw of Cora’s progression into the horrific existence she then had; Up to the age of fourteen she had been the model child, her dad was an Anglican minister and she had joined in with church life, enjoying choir and leading Sunday school for the under fives. She was invited to a party at a friend’s house but after the party had finished she had been brutally and repeatedly raped by boys she went to school with. The reason, because she had refused alcohol unlike the rest of the girls and resisted joining in “Spin the Bottle”. It was a punishment for non conformity. The boys didn’t get arrested or charged and she would have seen them each day at school so she didn’t return. From that moment she had quickly spiralled into a drug fed world, firstly prescription drugs, and later speed, E’s, finally arriving at her new saviour, H. Anything to obliterate the memory, her family had tried to understand but as time passed she stole from them and the parish and they left her to live as she then wanted. By the time she became pregnant with Kayle she was injecting into her chest and barely noticed her growing bump.

Laura sighed and turned her thoughts to Kayle once more, rising she went to press the button that would alert her daughter by means of a vibrating disc that Laura was coming up to her room. She would calmly sign out her messages of love and hope, she would sign Cora’s tale onto Kayle’s hand, whilst cradling her tiny frame and looking into her blank eyes, born deaf and blind with stunted growth, Kayle was her miracle child and no scrap of gold fabric was going to breach their relationship, a new way would be found.