Tag: original
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Number 10 of the… North?
Andy Burnham is our prime minister. Third time was, indeed, the charm for the ruthlessly ambitious career politician who has been treated as the king across the water for some time. That’s not a criticism. Ambition is important, but I don’t quite understand some of the people buying into his contrived persona of a happy-go-lucky…
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The Clickbait Breakdown: How The Media Converts Scottish Education into Rage-Bait
Scottish education reporting hit another low this week with The Scotsman’s latest piece of statistical rage-baiting: a page-padded countdown of Scotland’s “worst-performing” council areas for Higher passes. We are no strangers to local news reducing complex public institutions to raw, decontextualised metrics. But pieces like this step beyond lazy reporting; they actively mislead the public…
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The Endless Months
The morning arrived without a bell or an alarm,just the sun cutting through the curtains,and the sudden, heavy realisationthat tomorrow belonged to you, too. Weeks stretched out like a foreign continent,uncharted, unhurried,with no destination greater than the end of the laneor the cool, dark space beneath the old tree. Time lost its sharp edges.It became…
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August Holds Its Breath
By August, the hills have settledinto their deep greens and purples,heather thickening across the slopeslike a slow‑gathering bruise.The air holds a warm hush,not heat exactly,just a softness that makes you pauseon the path a little longer. The mornings carry a cool warning,a hint that the year is just about startingto think about turning.Light still stretches…
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Routine
The text alerts come first,then the aerial footage of the parking lot,red and blue lights washing over the stucco wallswhile parents wait behind the yellow tape. On the television, the spokesmen take their placesto recite the standard liturgy.They call it an unspeakable tragedy,an isolated act of evil,a storm that no one could have predicted. They…
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The Thread
A single thread has started to unwindAlong the cuff of an old woolen sleeve.A quiet looseness of a simple kind,That leaves no heavy heart behind to grieve. It pulls apart so slowly, stitch by stitch,A gentle letting go of what was tight.No longer holding to a complex pitch,Just softly coming undone in the light.
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The Keirful Goodbye
With Reeves wiping tears from her eyes,Sir Keir said his final goodbyes.He walked out the door,To a clap from the floor,Beneath the Westminster skies.
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Love, Too, is a Type of Pain
Love is a type of pain,the soft kind;the ache of holding somethingthat could breakand knowing you’d break with it. It’s the bruise of caring,the stretch of becomingbigger than your own skin. It hurts, yes,but only becauseit matters.
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Twelve Minutes
I only came in for bread. The place was half‑empty. It was the kind of lull where the staff looked briefly feral with freedom before remembering they’re on camera. I took a basket even though I didn’t need one; it felt like the sort of day where you pretend you’re more organised than you are.…
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Fourth of July
An old charter sat on its pedestal, edges worn from years of hands that claimed to honour it. Lately, a few visitors have begun lifting pieces from it; small ones, easy to pocket, easy to pretend were never there. The pedestal still stands. The room still applauds. But anyone looking closely can see what’s missing,…