Consider the intrigue of where babies are made. In old boring beds with interesting headboards, in the back of white cars, on patches of grass, against walls in corridors with dull paintwork, under dull orange lighting, and in unyielding …
Strange seeing a baby. Pink on the cheeks, like a bruised red apple. Eyes closed as if meditating. The tiniest nose you ever saw, like a comma. A small mouth that hasn’t uttered anything hurtful, …
He’s somewhere, in some country where dance moves are all about showing off your knee strength and where they couldn’t pick a single city to become their capital so they picked three (if you’re …
You think you know someone until you see them around their wife. Then you don’t know them at all. They speak like they are in church. The weight with which they enter rooms changes. Even their laughter is dense, …
Obviously, I love Joe Black. Because he’s still at that point in his life where idealism triumphs action. A point where intention is a mere projection. He’s talented and he doesn’t even realise the scale of it. He plays …
