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I used to think that writing was just about arranging words in neat little rows…my thoughts tamed and lined up on a page like stuck little traffic jams. Just string the words together, or so I thought. Like a glorified… Scrabbling for Words

Scrabbling for Words

I remember the first time we set foot in the house at the farm. What I mean is: I remember arriving, walking down the little stone path to the back door. I can still remember the way the flagstones fell… The Farm

The Farm

The next phase was Musselburgh. Plucked from teuchter life and dropped into a council house on the edge of Edinburgh. No more sheep shit. Just slabs and snails. Still wet, still wild in its own way. We found snails in… Musselburgh

Musselburgh