English and History is a subversive romance, set in a Scottish town, two estranged friends, both English teachers, reconnect through adversity and their shared love of books. 'Chris, what can I do? Don't say fuck off because I won't, but what can I do?' I want him to shut up, to go away, I clamp my hands over my ears. ‘Maybe it would help if you called Eilidh? Maybe she's just scared to call you?' I curl tighter into a foetal shape beneath the quilt, shielding my face. How ca

Have you lost your mind? Where’s your sense of humour? My mind goes everywhere it can, it loves to travel. My sense of humour is not on call; it turns up when it feels like it. Is your heart really in it? Listen to it, what does it say? My heart is wherever I am, beating in my chest. It says nothing. It beats and thumps and carries on. It won’t break or melt, harden or soften. You’re not yourself these days. I am always myself. It’s the days that change, and I go with them. #

I went to festivals when I was younger, bare faced, muddy and skint in charity shop velvet and cords. No subtlety in our taste for pretty boys and girls with loud guitars. We drank cider, snogged strangers, threw up. We bathed in sweat and lager in the mosh pit. We would not have taken a good selfie. We did not have sequins around our eyes. It’s age, I’m sure, but they don’t look like they’re having much fun. From her boyfriend’s shoulders, two rows from the front, she’s upda

Politely turning down offers is not an option. I can’t look after the kids, I can’t do anything. My chest is rattling and my skin oozing sweat, my legs weak and unreliable. I don’t even feel like writing. Speaking hurts. Doctor saw me within hours, out of hours, efficient and kind. Pneumonia, he says, not flu. I’ve been cared for all weekend. I have been looked after. It feels good, when everything else hurts. The best thing about being ill is that you can’t help but be helpe

My body is fighting a virus. My joints ache, my head hurts. Through the night I couldn’t sleep for shivering, my teeth chattered, despite a hot water bottle. I fell asleep and woke in the night to peel off my pyjamas, soaked in sweat. I wake up so grateful that the kids are staying with Granny and Granda. I don’t know how I’ll get out of bed, but I do. I count the hours between doses of paracetamol and ibuprofen, drink water, grab a sleep when she’s napping. The thing is, wha

I bought some cream for my face. It was on offer and I’m nearly forty. Snake Venom, it said, will instantly freeze your wrinkles. I dropped it in my basket and moved on to the nappies and wipes. Hang on, Snake Venom? Really? Improved Formula with SYN-AKE, a snake venom-like peptide. That sounds artificial, and toxic, but I really don’t want to look old. Instant Effect Wrinkle Filler, for visibly smoother and plumper skin. Mercury, Botulism, Leeches straight from Medieval Phys

It’s Heathcliff’s fault, and River Phoenix and Pete Doherty didn’t help much. It becomes a habit. Of course, no one is good or bad, there are only shades and flaws. She doesn’t need him to spear a mammoth. She’d like to talk about books and ideas and feelings. Yes. Those. But she stopped believing, and she chose her own cave. The shadows in there are livid and writhing. So, she covers them with cave paintings of the bookish soulmate she doesn’t deserve. Crushing her fear into

Mummy, I would like a humming-bird and also, I would like a swan. Well, there are no humming birds in Scotland, and I think all the swans belong to the queen. Why? Emm…history? They just do. We can’t keep them as pets. Anyway, they’re fierce. The Queen is greedy, keeping all the swans for herself. Why does she even want a pet swan if they are nasty and vicious? I don’t want her ever to come to my house. She won’t, sweetheart. She won’t come to our house. Why not? She’s busy,

Paddling in the cold peaty water, the river stole his left jelly shoe and my right flip-flop. He uses the slimy wooden weir as a slide. She doesn’t like the moss and pine needles touching her tiny toes. She’s hot and sad today. He wades out to a grassy island to share his picnic. I came here thirty or more years ago, with my mum and dad. The memory brought me back, with my own babies, to play in the pools and on the rocks of the Feugh. You can’t make a memory. Memories make t

I like it when people have harmless rituals against their fears. She walks past the piano, and plays a G for good. She will salute a solitary magpie. She will never begin a journey without St Christopher around her neck. She will always leave through the same door she came in by. We can’t carry our tattered, smelly toys or blankets with us. There may not be a hand to hold. So these must do instead. I don’t think they are a concession to fear, I think they are a flip of the mi