I’ve been doing something in secret.

It’s not as naughty as it sounds and perfectly legal, but still secret.

Each month or six weeks I get an email telling me “you’re in!” and to expect further communication soon.  Sure enough it arrives, 24 hours before the event, instructions where to go and at what time. And to bring a bottle of something refreshing.

What I’m not told is why I’m there and what is going to happen to me.

Actually, that last line isn’t quite true…

Sofar Sounds is a worldwide phenomenon, people arranging secret concerts in unconventional places, typically residential homes. What the audience is not told is who will be performing on the actual night, in fact we don’t know that until they take to the stage (or living room floor); it could be a name you’re familiar with or someone brand new. The need for respect and trust, no leaking of addresses or locations, makes it kinda sexy, with a rent party vibe. Some Sofar Sounds are free, others you chuck in a few bob and the cash goes to the artists.

sofar sign

Saturday’s Liverpool Sofar was at a new venue/café/art space in the city centre, The Well Space. And it was brilliant! My favourites – singer songwriter Esme Bridie, and R&B soul singer Jálen N’Gonda.

Esme Bridie - and Sofar Liverpool organiser Georgie Pruden
Esme Bridie
Jálen N'Gonda
Jalen N’Gonda

Our first time in The Well Space – tucked away in a quiet corner in town on Roscoe Street, and it has a library too.

sofar library

I love initiatives like Sofar Sounds, so positive and very creative.

(My secret is now out, I hope you’re not too shocked. More on Sofar Sounds here)


Liverpool Is A Village

Liverpool is a village.

I hear this, all the time. Everyone knows everyone else, and if you don’t, you know their mum. There’s an essential noseyness in the blood. I like that. It means you can walk through town anytime and see a familiar face (or their mum’s).

Amanda Brookes

I went to Liverpool author Amanda Brooke’s launch party for The Missing Husband, her brand new novel, on Thursday last at Waterstones in Liverpool ONE. As ever, because it’s Liverpool, I end up talking to people I know, lots of them.


Hello, you!

Ahh! You’re here too!

None of them writing people, just folk I know. It’s a joy. A grand evening of wine and words.


Timed Out

There are so many flash fiction timed competitions now, the sort where you are given a photo or word prompt and a set time – often mere hours – to write a punchy flash fiction. I sign up to them and swear blind I’ll enter this week honestly, but I never do.

It’s the time element that doesn’t suit me,  I think; but I’ve used such prompts quite a lot and worked on the flashes until I’m happy with them. I saw this photo on the Angry Hourglass site back in October 2014:

 angry hourglass

The photo reminded me of the sort of characters we have in Liverpool. The city is full of them, the wonderful busker Jacky (aka Plinkety Plink, because he mimed playing a cardboard guitar and sang “plinkety-plink” to Beatles songs, no matter the actual lyric) who performed outside Probe Records in the 1980s. Jacky died and was replaced by a doppleganger who carried on in his stead, like a tribute act of sorts.

I remember too Cherry Red frequenting pubs in the city centre, so called because he put shoe polish on his head in an effort to conceal his balding pate. The Cherry Red and Plinkety-Plink monikers were not meant as cruel or nasty, but affectionately and  both men are still spoken about with fondness.

So when I saw the pic of the man in his top hat on Angry Hourglass I imagined him prancing about in Liverpool or another city and getting up to all sorts. I wrote a flash fiction about him called Follow The Finger; it went quite dark in the end, as my flashes often do. Last week some six months after I first saw the photo Follow The Finger was published over at Flash Fiction Magazine. You can read it here.


People shouldn’t need telling, but unisex toilets are very bad

The bar I’m going to has no sign outside. Still, I find it. My friends arrive with kisses and hugs. We go inside. I acclimatise and nod yes, I’ve been here before. It is familiar with its cheesy fries served in tin mugs. That’s not the sort of thing you forget, a place that puts cheese on your food without asking first, in an Old Prospector mug.

The bar is full of the beautiful people who shop at John Lewis or Waitrose and the only second hand furniture they have at home is antique, passed down as a family heirloom. The men have designer beards ironed flat and trimmed or blow dried, one has a seaman’s woolly hat warming his skull. He works in computer coding.

Still, the bar is small and all goes well with our drinks and chats and catch ups.  After a glass or two of wine and because I’d blanked out my first visit to this place I ask, “does anyone know where the toilet is?”

Fingers point to an oblong block of white in the corner. The toilets are through the doorway and down a Kafkaesque corridor of too much light, harsh and glaring like it hates me, the sort of blazing light that call centres turn up to eleven to keep the worker drones awake.  Conditions you hear about in testimonies from people released from Guantanamo Bay, tales of sensory overload or deprivation, or both. I walk towards the light and follow the long straight corridor and am confronted by a pig trough. It is metal and deep, taps hanging over the side. I’ve had wine, so my mind rambles. They must turn the taps and swill spurts out runny and brown and nutritious for the pigs, splashing against the backwash and mirror. It’s wipe-clean. This is a progressive pig house, consideration given to the swine who want to look nice after they’ve eaten.  How nice, and right-on for the pigs.

This is not the pig trough toilet I'm talking about, but it looks like a urinal too, so...
This is not the pig trough toilet I’m talking about, but it looks like a urinal too, so…

But I see no pigs. There is no pig swill. I realise, slowly, that this is not a pig trough.  It is a washbasin, a long one with men and women’s toilets on either side. I am in fact in a unisex toilet.

In the 1990s men and women were for a brief and ugly time seen as the same. Someone decided young women were like lads, though what that made lads no one was quite sure. Zoe Ball and Cerys Matthews are and were tremendous women but never lads, no matter how much the ladette inventor (a man) wanted them to be. I’m linking the ladette thing and unisex toilets together because for the life of me I can’t think of any reason why either concept existed, and why at the same time. The ladette label has long jogged on but unisex toilets? No one wants them and yet they still exist, and new ones built.

I’m torn as to why they are still here, these years on. Are designers, bar owners or whoever comes up with these ideas believing unisex loos right-on, or are they eager to save space and make more money? I’m thinking it’s cash related, for the life of me I can’t think of another reason. Back in 1990s most realised the concept of unisex toilets as a grim one, men and women doing toilet things so close is very wrong. We are not the same. Men and women are equal but not the same. There is a tremendous difference between us and that’s okay. I’m grateful for the differences and feel like holding a bloody party to celebrate them if the differences mean that we get separate toilets.

We do our toilet business differently, but some right on-ers, they will not let it go. Stubborn digging in of heels is never good. The definition of madness is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting a different result. Madness barks and gallops in these bars and clubs, the ones with unisex toilets.

I go to the women’s cubicles, a row of white doors. I am in The Trial, unsure what I’ve done wrong but at least I know how to get out of the place at the end and that is a lifeline. The cubicles, they are as I imagine men’s conveniences, blocked toilets with crumpled wads of toilet roll sodden solid and grey like old chewing gum. Not Waitrose toilet roll, I note. Funny, that.

I soldier on because I must then go to wash my hands in the trough. It is not a sink, no matter how much my mind tries to convince me. The trough is functional dull steel, it will never earn a shine and wouldn’t look out of place in a 1950s sci-fi move.The Revenge of The Uni-Sex Toilets filmmakers, I fancy they imagined we’d be living on a pill a day by now and not have to work because robots do everything for us. Hollow laughter, I know you well.

I give washing my hands a try, the things hanging over the side of the trough shaped like a tap are ones where you put your hand or whatever else it is you might need to wash underneath and water comes out of its own accord. Only tonight it doesn’t and I’m standing there with damp hands under a shy dribble as a painfully young man as mortified as me washes his hands in his part of the trough. There is no man and woman part of the trough but I pretend there is, we both do. We finish the washing and drying at the same time and leave simultaneously.

‘You first,’ he says. He is a gentleman.

Somehow, this makes everything worse. We both stare at the ground, not wanting to look at each other because we both know we’ve been to the toilet and it’s just too awful to think about, the individual toilet business. I’m northern and working class and he has an imagination too. So I’m walking along this horrifically well-lit corridor with a twenty year old boy behind me to get away from the toilet as quickly as I can and thinking “why do people in bars hate their customers so much?” Because I think they do. They must, or why else would they carry on with the unisex toilets thing? No good can come of it, ever.


Howdy Mr Fox

Charity shops the week before Christmas are traditionally sparse for goodies, New Year is the time when we can pounce and scoop up unwanted gifts. I struck lucky today, and found this foxy little darling.


I don’t know what this was meant to be when originally made but now with a little charity shop magic, it’s my new Kindle cover. YMCA bought, it has a notebook-sized pocket at the back too. Win-win.