A Nice Place to Die

A Nice Place to Die

© Susan Browne 2019

Shortlisted for Words by Water short story competition in October 2019. The judge’s comment was: “A gripping read, the reader is taken on an undulating wave of emotions with the main character.”  

The cat is missing. It’s not here waiting for its breakfast. Bella does love that wretched cat. Just five minutes left until the school run. I step outside, and the frosty air hits me, and I squint in the sunlight. I rattle her bowl and call her name. Inspect the road both ways. No cat. I don’t mention it, and we walk out to the car.

When I get home, I find it curled up in a ball at the edge of the field. ‘Come on, you. Breakfast.’ She doesn’t budge so I take her in my arms to the front door where her food sits. She slumps down, ignoring it. She is listless. Floppy. ‘You can’t be sick, cat.’ I go inside and dial the vet, and the secretary asks if I’d like to bring her in right away. There goes my morning.

‘What’s the cat’s name?’ she asks in a green reception that smells of bleach and bones.

‘Sadness,’ I say.

Fingers hover over a keyboard.

The vet shows me Sadness’ ghostly eye rims and white gums.

‘Severely anaemic. She’s only hanging in there. The kindest thing is to put her down right now,’ she says, matter-of-factly. It’s just a cat, after all.

‘I can’t put her down.’ I feel my head filling up with water as I picture my little girl, getting home from school only to find out her best friend in the world is dead. No warning. No time to prepare.

‘It’s a hard decision. Take your time,’ the vet says. A large dog barks busily out in the waiting room, and Sadness looks at me.

‘I’m going to take her with me. She can die with us at home.’

‘Sure. That’s your choice.’

‘And there’s really nothing more to be done?’

‘We could try some iron and antibiotics, but there really is very little point.’

‘Well, we’ll try anyway. Please.’

I pay and walk out with my severely anaemic cat and useless tablets to my crookedly parked car and drive home.

I allow her into the house, and she heads right under the stairs. I tidy it for her and get out some spare bedding. She’s just a pair of green eyes in the darkness, watching me as I carefully move things around. I get her food and water — an old litter box. Stairs get brushed even though it is only Thursday. I wipe marks off the paintwork.

I collect Bella, feeling wretched.

‘I have some upsetting news for you.’

‘No go-go’s left again?’

‘No. We have go-go’s. It’s Sadness. She is very, very sick.’

I adjust my rear-view mirror. My little girls head has shrunken in like a turtle, back into her body. School uniform all crumpled up around her shoulders — a tense, straight line for a mouth.

When we arrive home, she’s immediately under the stairs. They share a silent commune.

The next thing Bella’s disappeared down to her bedroom and returns after ten minutes with a picture. It has Sadness, hearts, leaves, sunshine, clouds, grass and says in the sky on one of the clouds’ eid ot ecalp ecin a.’ A Nice Place to Die. She sticks the picture up over Sadness’ little sickbay.

‘That’s amazing. Sadness will love it.’ When I check again, some white plastic rosary beads have manifested and are dangling down the bannister over Sadness. Bella is sitting close to her, and they are both very still. My hand rests over my mouth. In that pocket of silence, across the airwaves flows the very purest of love, and I think it might break me open.

I wake myself up in the night, sneezing, and feel the vaporous presence of both a cat and my estranged husband. But in truth I am alone.


It is morning and Sadness lives. She even trots out to the kitchen after me, so I fix her some breakfast and tidy up. Brushing the little spills of cat litter away and giving her fresh water. I imagine that she might survive and something inside me dances.

Hugging a mug of tea, I think about Paudie.

‘Still pushing the important things away and clinging onto deadwood,’ said my father before he died of a massive heart attack on his favourite seat overlooking the marshes.

People say he’s gay, my deadwood-Paudie. I don’t think so. I didn’t hear it from him. Bella tells me that he lives with another man and that she’s met him a few times and that his name is Colm. She told me more things, but my brain removes them like there’s no space for that information.

I did all I could, in the beginning, to prevent the divorce from going through. I was sure he was making a mistake. It was for him, I told myself, not just Bella and me. In the end, even my solicitor seemed to give up on me.

‘You’re scaring him, Claire. I think you’re actually scaring him.’ I think I may have been scaring her too. If she was honest about it.

I am glad that Bella is at school when I try to give the cat those tablets. The whole ordeal almost kills her. She won’t swallow, and I let her go with the fright of those bared fangs. She darts behind the sofa. Writhing and making hideous sounds. I watch, frozen. A puddle of urine seeps out from under her.

‘Oh my God, Sadness. Please don’t die yet,’ I’m crying and sneezing.


Bella is home again, and she can’t find Sadness who was on the blanket under the stairs earlier. Where I lifted her flimsy frame with very little life force left in it. My daughter’s eyes are wild, her hands flapping. She covers her ears and hums, and I get up and hum too and wrap myself around her, making myself into a humming human blanket.

We find a rhythm and rock gently. I kiss her chamomile no-tears hair, and her taut body starts to relax a little.

‘It’s okay. We’ll find her.’

I am worse than worried, though. I switch the torch on my phone and shine it around. Eventually, I discover that Sadness has crawled right inside the bottom step. I gingerly stretch out my hand and make contact with fur. Her body feels quite still.

‘Sadness? Are you alive in there?’

‘Of course she is alive. I can feel her. Let me look.’

‘Wait. Sadness?’ My heart is stopped. Then suddenly a grey tail flicks at us, and I breathe again. ‘She’s alive.’

‘Told you,’ says Bella, her chest puffed out and arms long and skinny at her sides.

‘Come on, homework time. Let’s give her some space.’

Bella sulkily empties her schoolbag. Books, pencils flowing out of their case and some smelly lunch remnants.

Each night I can’t sleep. He is gone seven years now. It’s not as though it’s a new thing. But how can you leave just as your first baby is born? He never answered that for me. It remains one of those mind-benders that goes off like the eternal boomerang into space and never turns around.

I walk down at three to see those green eyes. She blinks. I curl up on the cold tiles and rest my head down on the blanket, exhausted. Sadness walks over to me and places her forehead against the crown of my head. I bathe in an unexpected rush of affection.

Upstairs again I’m on my phone looking up how to help a cat that is dying. I discover a world of things, such as music for cats. I download some and put it playing softly under the stairs. It is a haunting, whirling sound with background purring noises on it. I am very glad I can’t hear it from my bed.

Sunday morning, Bella asks me to go to Mass. She is as still and quiet as ever she has been in there. At the end, she asks to light three candles. I watch her praying. Father Matt comes over, and I find myself telling him about the cat. He is old and sympathetic, which makes me feel a mixture of sorrow and mortification.

‘Thank you. Thank you,’ I say.

We drive home, and she checks Sadness, who is asleep. She looks peaceful. ‘Thank you,’ I whisper again. To saints and angels. To the cat. Anyone at all.

After a snack, Bella runs outside. I see her spinning on the grass, arms outstretched, looking up at the vast white sky. A small, blonde sorceress whipping up a spell.

It’s just gone eleven at night when I hear strange yowling coming from below. I take myself down to the bottom of the stairs where a cat called Sadness is truly dying. I am terrified. She thrashes around, claws outstretched. Then stops breathing, and I think that’s it.

After some time, there is another gasp. Her tail stands on end. She hurtles blindly into the wall. Death ravages her.

‘Rest now. Easy girl,’ I tell her. She stills again. I hold my breath. After some minutes, I want to reach out and touch her. But I’m frightened she will suddenly lunge at me, thinking I am Death. My hand floats in mid-air, idiotically.

I consider the large shoebox and wonder how I might fit her in there if she is left lying long and straight as she is. I need to curl her up. After half an hour of pacing and checking, I get her in there. One step ahead of rigor mortis.


He hasn’t come this close for seven years. As far as his feet have gone are about five paces onto the driveway. In all that time. My mother’s people’s land. He answered the text in less than a minute: ‘I’ll be there soon.’

He’s in the garden, digging a grave for Sadness. It’s where I found her a few days ago, her sunspot. He makes easy work of it. He is powerful and muscular, and I resent that he looks better than ever before. Deadwood clinger.

Bella and I watch. She has the shoebox coffin in her hands, with pictures drawn onto it and Sadness in big ornate writing. She doesn’t want to put her cat down there into that damp, dark hole. He helps her to lower it into the earth.

I look from one to the other, voraciously finding him in her and her in him. We take turns throwing soil onto the box and then he fills it in using the shovel.

Then we stand, three of us beside Sadness’s resting place. From afar, you’d think we were all together — husband, wife, daughter. Six shoes in the morning dew, burying our beloved cat. I wish someone could take a photo or paint us this way. I want to keep it even if it’s just a lie.

A little girl folds into my body, her back facing me. I lean forward over her, and we merge for a few moments. Like seven years ago, she is a part of me.

My gaze turns over the land and to the car parked on the road, and I see a bearded man’s profile in the passenger seat. I look at Paudie’s shoes and the way he carries himself. Then a boomerang in outer space crashes into something hard and breaks into tiny pieces.

Sun comes out from behind a cloud. It’s over.

‘Will ye have breakfast? Tea?’ I pause, my mouth opening and closing.

‘We’re good, thanks. Better be off. Bye so, Bella. Bye.’

I hoped he would refuse. I’m not ready yet.

‘Bye. Thanks.’

A pile of earth sits on top of the grave. Ready to sink down over time.


Mindfulness for Writers

Mindfulness for Writers

The Mindful Age

There has been an explosion of mindfulness in recent years. Everyone has heard of it. It’s the first time anything of its kind has been embraced by the medical field in western society and it’s helping people of all walks of life.

To me, mindfulness is being in the present moment, deliberately, and accepting without judging my experience.

It’s Not Always Easy to be Present

You know when you are thinking about your writing, maybe you think about how badly or well it went yesterday or last week (the past). Or how it’s going to stink if you can’t get it published – or how wonderful if you do and it becomes a Booker prize winner (the future). That’s NOT being in the present moment.

Being in the moment is allowing yourself to be here. Right now. Just where you are at. So if you are working on something, that’s where you are. Notice how it feels and then attempt to let go of judgements. Good. Bad. Mediocre. We are always labelling things.

How Does the ‘Without Judgement’ Part Work?

If you feel anxious about writing you just notice that. Don’t try to change it or criticise yourself because of it. Simply notice. How do you know that you are anxious? Is it a physical feeling? Is it a thought? Where do you feel anxiety in the body? If you feel excited about your writing, observe that.

When You Notice Stress, Start With the Breath.

Being aware of your breath is a key step in becoming mindful. You take a lot of breaths. Most of the time you don’t notice you are doing it. While you write, you take lots of breaths too.

If you do nothing else in mindfulness only develop an awareness of your breathing, then that is enough. Here are some ways of practising mindful breathing:

  • Focus on your abdomen. When you breathe in, deliberately push out your belly. If you find this hard, lie on your bed with a book on your tummy. Make the book go up and down with your breathing.
  • Breathe in for seven and out for eleven. Counting in this way while breathing makes it easy to stay mindful of the breath, as you are busy counting and focusing on your breathing at the same time.
  • Yet another technique is to simply focus on your breath for a minute. Set a timer if you want, so you know when the minute is up. This time, don’t try to change the breath in any way. Just watch the rise and fall, the way the in breath turns into the out breath, and back into an in breath and so on. If your mind wanders, gently bring it back to the breath.

The more distracted you are, the more the mind will wander. It’s alright. You get better the more you practise and it’s okay to have a bad day even if you’ve done it loads of times.

The Stories We Tell Ourselves about our Writing

What do you tell yourself about your writing? Practise being the watcher. If you get rejected, do you get an onslaught of thoughts interpreting why this might have happened? The judges must not like me. Those things are only won/published by people who have an MA in Creative Writing or have been writing consistently all of their lives. My writing is too meh. I don’t have time to be really good.

And what about winning or being published? Do they have the opposite judgements and if so what comes of those in the long run?

Thoughts as Leaves on a Stream

Ever stopped to notice your thoughts? One after the other. Where one finishes and the next one pops up. Experts estimate that we have between 60,000 and 80,000 thoughts every day. That’s a lot. Many of these are repeated too. A lot of times.

We are very good at thinking while we do things. Such as driving. Ever wondered ‘how on earth did I get here? I don’t even remember passing through such a place.’ You didn’t notice, because your mind was so busy churning out thoughts that were not related to your surroundings or the experience of driving.

I like the process of imagining that my thoughts are written on leaves that are floating down a stream. On the first leaf it might say ‘hey, this is weird. I wonder if I’m doing this right,’ and the second one ‘I wonder what I’ll cook for dinner.’ Or in your writing ‘how come I’m finding this so challenging?’

Check out this link to see a more detailed guide to this technique, called ‘Cognitive Defusion.’ There are different ways to practise cognitive defusion. Other ways including imagining your thoughts are written on placards of a marching band, or on clouds passing in the sky.

mindfulness writers

Radical Acceptance

What if you were to radically accept yourself just as you are and your writing just the way it is? Even if it’s not going well today. Ideas are coming like sludge (as in, not coming). The critic is gone amok. You think your writing is the worst lot of drivel in the world and that you are wasting your time. What if you could accept that all of those things might be true.

So what?

So what if my writing is not good. Today. Ever. Who cares if I never win competitions. If I never finish anything. If my spouse hates it. If my book can’t get a publisher. So…… what?!

Beginners Mind

Imagine if you were doing your writing for the very first time. There wouldn’t be all those stories about your writing, about this piece. Forget what you know.

‘…Beginner’s mind is what we must come back to every time we sit down and write. There is no security, no assurance that because we wrote something good two months ago, we will do it again. Actually, every time we begin, we wonder how we ever did it before. Each time is a new journey with no maps.’

Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones

Mindful of your Posture

Similarly to your breathing, take a moment now and again to be aware of how you are sitting. Again, this is not to judge yourself for slouching, rather bring a sense of awareness and, thus, space into the body. Better still, go for a mindful walk.

Mindfulness for Writers in Action

Struggling to write a scene in my work in progress one day, I wondered if these techniques could help me get through it.

I was feeling stressed. There was a deadline. The scene I was writing was pivotally important and I’d been running from it long enough. Writing anything but that scene. It was time to bite the bullet and just write it. My monkey mind was hopping around squawking about this and that. You’re not good enough to write this. People will hate it. It won’t come across how you want it. Who do you think you are? You don’t have enough knowledge. And so on.

First I tried breathing. I noticed that my breathing was high up in my chest and more rapid than I would have liked. The 7/11 breathing, as described above, helped me to slow it down, and I imagined bringing it down into the abdomen.

This calmed me down a little. So then I tried to accept that yes, maybe I am a terrible writer but I’m going to show up anyway. Yes, I might be unable to make this scene as good as I want it to be today but that’s okay, I’m still here. True, some people might hate it, even if I’ve edited it five hundred times to the best of my ability, but there’s not much I can do about other people.

I was radically accepting my writing and myself in that space trying to write that hard scene. And guess what? It got easier. I stopped fighting with myself. And after some further edits, I became not just pleased with but super pleased with the scene. Which is, of course, a judgement again but hey, you can’t win all of the time.

If you enjoyed this blog for writers, you might also like:

The Hero’s Journey by Siofra O’Donovan – Plotting

Ask the Right Question – powerful questions for writers

About the Author

Susan Browne is a Wellness Coach and Author of the mind, body, spirit book Angel EFT, and is working on her first novel. Enjoy the author blog and some of her short stories here on this website.


The Hero’s Journey by Siofra O’Donovan

The Hero’s Journey by Siofra O’Donovan

The mapping of your heroic plot

To plot or not to plot?

Guest Blog by Author and Writer Coach Siofra O’Donovan

If you’re struggling with plot and you feel a little put off by Stephen King’s premise that plot is all artifice and that the character should lead your narrative onwards, look no further. The Hero’s Journey is a blueprint that could just work for you.

It’s a powerful, dynamic, archetypal journey that can be applied to personal experience and to the process of constructing a narrative that works as a screenplay, novel or short story. The Hero’s Journey is about both a universal and a personal story.

the hero's journey

Joseph Campbell

Joseph Campbell was a world-renowned expert in comparative mythology and a professor at Sarah Lawrence College for 38 years, known for his expression ‘follow your bliss.’ Campbell determined a narrative pattern in all myths and stories, called ‘The Hero’s Journey’ or the Monomyth. George Lucas, the producer of Star Wars, used the Hero’s Journey to write and develop the narrative in Star Wars.

“Whether the hero be ridiculous or sublime, Greek or barbarian, gentile or Jew, his journey varies little in essential plan. Popular tales represent the heroic action as physical, the higher religions show the deed to be moral, nevertheless, there will be found astonishingly little variation in the morphology of the adventure, the character roles involved, the victories gained.

If one or another of the basic elements of the archetypal pattern is omitted from a given fairy tale, legend, ritual or myth, it is bound to be somehow or other implied- and the omission itself can speak volumes of the history and pathology of the example.” – Joseph Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces.

Plucked out of the Ordinary World

The Hero starts out in the ordinary world. Think of Luke Skywalker, bored to death as a farm boy before he tackles the universe, at the beginning of Star Wars. Think of Frodo at the beginning of the Lord of the Rings, in the shire. There is a situation. Their ordinary world is upset. They’ve got the call from the Universe. It’s task time.

In the film Witness, you see both the Amish boy and the policeman in their ordinary worlds before they are thrust into alien worlds- the farm boy into the city, the city cop into the unfamiliar countryside.

The Hero’s Journey is Universal

Think of the life of Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha. Think of Prometheus ascending to the heavens, stole fire from the Gods, and descended. Jason sailed through the Clashing Rocks into a sea of marvels, circumvented the dragon that guarded the Golden Fleece, and returned with the fleece.

Aeneus went down into the underworld, crossed the dreadful river of the dead, threw a sop to the three-headed watchdog Cerberus, and conversed, at last, with the shade of his dead father. All things were unfolded to him: the destiny of souls, the destiny of Rome, which he was about to be found. He returned to the ivory gate to his work in the world.

“Select two or three heroes and then ask these mythical beings to incarnate through you, and watch the change.” – Deepak Chopra in ‘Finding Joe’, a documentary about Joseph Campbell.

Inner and Outer Transformation

You are the hero of this journey. By tuning into yourself and the character you are developing as a hero, you will awaken your inner potential as a writer and creator of worlds and activate powers that you never even knew you had. The character reaches a stage of the journey called The Master of the Two Worlds, in which she has received the ultimate boon. She crosses the return threshold, and finds her way back to the ordinary world, a transformation has taken place within and without.

The Return

We all know what it’s like to return from an amazing adventure, and with photos in tow. We enthusiastically try to convince our friends that this is the place to go. And please, oh please, listen to me recount every detail of what happened. No! They say. I don’t have the time. And why do they not have the time? Apart from being envious, they may also be threatened by you, an emissary of another spatiotemporal reality that… actually has nothing to do with theirs. Or so they think. And isn’t it excruciating when the returnee is a particularly enthusiastic photographer and inflicts you with a slideshow?

But the thing is, it was just the same for Jesus, and for Buddha, and for Mohammed. And the same for Rip Van Winkel, and poor old Gulliver, who returned, sadly, empty-handed and with nothing but their tales to tell. At the end of their extraordinary cavortings. Gulliver was deemed mad by the Royal Geographic Society, after recounting his tales of Lilliput, Laputa and the Land of Houyhnhnms (a race of intelligent horses described in the last part of Jonathon Swift’s satirical Gullivers Travels) But this is how it is for every traveller I believe.

The Mastery of the Two Worlds

But for the Spiritual journey-er, it is an even more explosive reception, the Mastery of the Two Worlds… What do you do with your message, your gift, your Boon of Wisdom, when you return? Are you stoned, slated or worse again, crucified? We each go through Hero’s Journeys every day. For there are micro and macro versions of this never-ending spiral. It’s like Yeat’s Gyre, or the Serpent shedding its scales.

The serpent, demonised by the Western World as an evil, poisonous and devious creature of sin, condemned from the Garden of Eden for Eternity, is a creature revered in the East. The power, our power, resides at the base of our spine, and this in the Vedic tradition is likened to a snake coiled at the base, and over time and with much yogic practice, it climbs up through the body, clearing out the debris of conditioning, delusion and ignorance along the way, until it reaches the crown, where the practitioner becomes enlightened.

hero's journey mastery of the two worlds

“Woman brings life into the world. Eve is the mother of this temporal world. Formerly you had a Dreamtime paradise there in the Garden of Eden – no time. No birth, no death – no life. The serpent, who dies and is resurrected, shedding its skin and renewing its life, is the lord of the central tree, where time and eternity come together. He is the primary god. Actually, in the Garden of Eden, Yahweh, the one who walks there in the cool of the evening is just a visitor. The garden is the serpent’s place.” It is an old, old story.” – Joseph Cambell.

The Hero’s Journey undertaken is an act of uncoiling that latent inner serpent, shedding the old skins, and growing a new one, infused with wisdom in insight. It is a transformation of the human spirit.

“The snake which cannot cast its skin has to die. As well, the minds which are prevented from changing their opinions; they cease to be mind.” – Friedrich Nietzsche.

More than a Formulaic Blueprint

And so The Hero’s Journey is much more than a formulaic blueprint for writing a story. It is a tool for going within, taking a journey as you/ yourself/ other- your hero, your heroine and finding the treasure that lies beneath decades of conditioning, conflict and inner turmoil. Outwardly yes, we face Darthvader- but remember well that when Luke Skywalker did that, he saw his own face. It was the showdown for the Father-Son separation. There was no difference between what he saw, and what he was.
And remember that when George Lucas wrote Star Wars, he did so with constant reference to The Hero with a Thousand Faces. He consulted Joseph Campbell himself, who said that Star Wars was ‘a myth for our time.’ Just as the Marvel stories are, and The Game of Thrones. The writers of these may not pay any attention to the Hero’s Journey, but inevitably, its bones are there beneath the story- informing the development of the plot and the character arcs.

Is the Hero’s Journey an Overused Tool?

“Stories are about solving problems, not mythical journeys of spiritual transcendence. In Disney’s Beauty and the Beast Belle is the Main Character and the Beast is the Impact Character. Both don’t fit in with the rest of society, but one—Belle—has found an appropriate way of dealing with it.
In the end, she continues to do things the way she always has. The Beast, however, is the one who has the major transformational change. This is NOT the physical transformation but rather, the transformation of character that he undergoes. He changes and the spell is broken. The Author’s proof that Belle made the right choice is apparent in the smile on her face as they dance into the clouds.” – Narrative First, ‘Not Everything is a Hero’s Journey.’

Refer Back to the Steps

You can use these steps if your hero/heroine get lost in the mire of the plot:

  1. The hero leaves the ordinary world. Sometimes, they are ripped out of this by force.
  2. The hero experiences death and rebirth. Literal death and resurrection, or a close brush with death. Or it could be a figurative death.
  3. The hero is initiated into their new life. This is a period where they’re able to get their bearings and learn the rules of their new existence.
  4. The hero returns to their own world. Permanently changed by everything they’ve experienced. A classic return ending comes at the end of Stephen King’s alternative history novel 11/22/63. The return doesn’t always happen, especially in tragic endings or in more literary examples of speculative fiction.

‘The Hero’s Journey is not an invention, but an observation. It is a recognition of a beautiful design, a set of principles that governs the conduct of life and the world of storytelling the way physics and chemistry govern the physical world.’ – Christopher Vogler.

Siofra O’Donovan

Siofra O’Donovan’s Creative Writing Workshops at the Novara Centre are inspired by the work of Joseph Campbell, whose Hero’s Journey is a universal blueprint for all myths and stories across the world. The Hero’s Journey is taught as a method for enhancing Creative Writing. It can be used as a tool for self-discovery or a greater creative project like a novel or screenplay.

Learn more about Siofra at www.siofraodonovan.com

To see the Hero’s Journey in the context of a travelogue memoir, see Siofra O’Donovan’s Lost in Shambala.

The story of her amazing journey through the Himalayas in search of Shambhala, among the Tibetans living in exile along the Indo-Tibetan border. Based on years of research, this book was published first by Pilgrims books and is now available on Kindle.
‘It’s everything the armchair traveller with spiritual leanings could hope to read about Tibet in exile.’ – O.R. Melling

Click here to see the list of other Blog Entries

Be Mine

Be Mine

Be Mine

Drama short story

© Susan Browne 2019

Bob has loved Donna all his life. Now she is in a nursing home, but he hasn’t given up, and finally, he has nothing to lose.

NYC Midnight challenge, 2019: Drama / Nostalgia / A chauffeur

It is a frosty morning in Hyde Park, and Bob is walking home for the last time from Marlborough Lane Chauffeur Services. All he wants is a drink. To sit by the fire and watch the squirrels play in his little white garden.

Swans weave in the mist on the lake, and he contemplates throwing his work bag into the black water. Letting it sink down. But he might only get stopped for littering. Doggy patrol are all around. With their poo bags and camera phones.

Feeling pain in his fingers, he regrets not bringing his gloves. Queen Victoria looks down at him with contempt, frost on her eyebrows. He pulls a face at her and walks on the grass to feel the crunch of frost under his feet. His boss’s words run over and over in his head.

‘You don’t work here anymore, Bob. We’ve talked about this enough now, and it’s time for you to go.’

At the kiosk just outside the park he picks up a newspaper, and the headlines make him stop dead in his tracks. Nursing Home Near Miss as Dementia Patient Walks Out into Traffic.

He’s getting an idea.

At home, he lights a fire and pours himself a glass of scotch. The idea whisps past again. His pulse quickens. Crazy but possible.


He closes his eyes and thinks of June 1965, shooting catapults with his friend Mark. Marks little sister Donna goes by, and Bob feels his face flush. She is not quite a kid any more. Twelve but sculpting into a beautiful woman. Mark is going to shoot at her, and Bob puts his hand on the catapult.


‘Urrgh, you fancy my sister. You’re disgusting, mate, you know that?’

He was disgusting. He knew. The law of the jungle is that you don’t fancy mates’ little sisters. Especially ones so much younger. But he couldn’t help it. Ever since their joint family holiday in Scotland, two years previous. He tried to make it stop. But whenever he thought of her, he felt out of control.  


‘Ouch! You bastard, Mark.’

‘Don’t call me that,’ and with that Mark pounced on her. They were on the pavement, she was screaming, and Bob, stronger, broke them up. He grabbed her close, pressing her against himself. She wriggled free and glared at him.

‘What the bloody hell are you doing, perve?’ She stormed off. Bob didn’t see Mark for a while after that. Their friendship fizzled, just like many friendships do at that age with life making its own twists and forks. But he never moved on from Donna Roberts. He refused to let go, no matter how many times she rebuffed him. He thought he just had to wait until the time was right. She’d come around.

When she got married seven years later, he thought of it as just another delay. She had four children. He could wait. Her husband died of a fall in 2004. Off a ladder, such a shame, and such a careful man. Things got deferred further still as in her grief she went off travelling for years, then arrived back only to develop some brain condition or other and was later admitted to a nursing home in South London.

Now perhaps the wait is over. Now maybe it’s time. He’s running out of patience. And of reasons to hold back.

He bought her a teddy last Valentine’s Day in the shopping centre. It holds a heart across its chest that reads in white writing ‘Be Mine.’ It sits on his bed. He keeps a photo of her beside it, age twelve, that he stole from Mark’s house one day and nobody saw.

Signing In

Now, already he’s outside Oakdale House again. He watches the big red, Georgian front door. It’s locked of course. You need to ring to be let in. There’s a camera. You need to sign in. And you need good reason to visit whoever you are visiting. He can’t mess it up, or they will be on alert for him.

He waits and watches from across the street. Sitting on a bench near a bus stop. He’s done this a number of times since she got here. Never been in yet. He hugs a takeaway coffee, into which he’s poured a nip of scotch from his hip flask. A retirement gift. His car is parked around the corner. Ready just in case.

He’s going to take a chance. He can just visit this time. He’ll see. Test the water, come up with a proper plan. He writes a fake name in the book. Tells them he is her cousin. A care assistant shows him the room, and she is there sitting in her chair with a blanket on her knees.

‘Hello, Donna. I bought you a teddy bear,’ he tells her. He’s trembling, and he can’t stop the smile stretching across his face. She is still so beautiful.

‘Thank you,’ she says as he puts it on her pillow. Be Mine. He can’t tell if she knows who he is. She seems like she is thinking hard and trying to make sense of something. There is a greyness to her eyes that wasn’t there before.

They sit in silence for a while. He is running over the years in his mind, and she is quiet and still.

‘Do you want to come for a walk?’ he asks her.

‘Of course,’ she smiles. ‘I love walks.’ Bob wonders if she will really come with him. He is excited and tries to calm his breath in his chest.

‘Back in a minute.’ He wanders down the hall and pauses here and there. Watching. He sees the woman at reception pressing something on the wall to release the door.

In the sitting room, just two patients are sitting there and there is a daytime chat show playing on the TV. He lights the corner of a paper napkin and puts it in the wastepaper bin, then walks hurriedly to Donna’s room. She is sitting on her bed. She looks through him when he comes in.

‘Did you miss me?’

‘Is it Monday today?’

‘Yes,’ he lies. He starts putting some of her clothes in a plastic shopping bag. Cleaning items and all he can grab quickly. The teddy. A coat smelling of must in a wardrobe. A nightdress. Underwear. Socks and slippers.

‘Who are you again?’ she asks.

‘I’m your chauffeur, and we’re going on a grand adventure. You must get bored in here, with all these old cronies. A young woman like you.’

‘Is it raining outside?’

‘Frosty. So put this jumper on. That’s the girl.’

And they walk arm in arm as the fire alarm sounds. People are rushing around. Even the receptionist has left her chair, and he says to Donna ‘open the door in a second, when I say. Okay?’ He puts her hand on the door handle and shows her how to open it.

And it works. They are out. Down the slope and onto the street. She stops, frozen. ‘What is that awful noise?’

‘The alarm, we had to get out. Everyone is. Are you ready to come for a drive with me?’ He flips on his hat that he stole from work.

‘Is there champagne?’

‘By God there will be. For you my darling. Champagne it is. The best money can buy.’

Love Nest

He guides her into the passenger seat and she looks around. He locks the doors. Before long the A40 turns into the M40 and all is going to plan. He looks over at her from time to time. He wonders how it would be if she were suddenly to start yelling and trying to get out. Attracting attention. He wonders about the cameras in and around London. His fingerprints on the sign in book. No going back now.

He’s low on petrol at around Stoke-on-Trent. She is asleep, so he leaves the motorway at the next service station. Parking up he gets out as quiet as he can. Tank full and she’s still sleeping, her head lolled to the side. When he goes to pay he’s conscious but tries to smile and relax. She’s just out of view from the queue. He buys what food he can grab, and pays by card. Another traceability – he curses himself for not thinking things through more.

Then his heart jumps in his chest. Donna isn’t there. His first reaction is to wonder where to hide. Perhaps the police have got her. But they haven’t. She’s there chatting to a woman filling up her tank. Stay calm.

‘Come on my lovely, better get back on the road.’

She looks at him sharply, a confused and slightly suspicious look. ‘Who are you again?’ she asks. The woman, about forty with a black fur hat on, frowns a little as she replaces the nozzle and screws her petrol cap back on.

‘Here I got your favourite chocolate,’ and he gently pushes her back into the passenger seat and her body yields.

‘That’s so nice of you,’ she says and looks at it as though she has no idea how to unwrap it. He takes it from her and removes the wrapper, and she tastes it. ‘I love chocolate.’

The log cabin is nestled on the banks of Loch Lomond, with a view of Ben Nevis. Very like the big one they stayed in all those years ago. He gets her inside, and then he can’t rest. Pacing and wondering what to do, trying to make her comfortable. He makes her tea. Shows her the patio then brings her in again.

‘Do you remember, Donna? When we were here last?’

She looks at him, bird-like. Her head a little to the side. He just can’t tell, but he likes to think that she is remembering too. She has chocolate at the side of her mouth which instinctively makes him wipe his own.

‘I’ll tell you about it to jog your memory. In August 1967 my family and your family holidayed together. Our parents were the best of friends. And Mark and me, and you. I was fifteen, and you were ten.’ It’s clear she’s not listening now but he continues anyway.

‘One day, you fell and sprained your ankle, playing in the waterfall, and I saved you, carried you all the way back to the cabin. It was very like this one. Not far from here either.’ Bob closes his eyes and goes back there, feeling her small frame in his arms. The way she looked at him. Like he was some big strong mountain man. Tarzan. She seemed to be enjoying it as much as him. She rested her head on his chest and closed her eyes.  

The adults told him he was brave and responsible and caring and he and she were silent. Sharing a special moment that couldn’t be spoiled by speaking.  

That night time the parents drank at the pub on wooden benches on the bank of the lough. Bob made sure to include Donna in their games. The sun stayed up very late into the night as though it didn’t want it to end either. They paddled in the clear shallow waters edge, splashed and skimmed stones. Mark made fun of Bob for being unable to swim. Bob didn’t care, and Donna said ‘at least he’s not afraid of the dark like you are,’ and they both laughed.

Now, Donna just sits there, tea in hand. An almost-smile on her lips.


Later, she is sitting in front of the television. He doesn’t know how she switched it on. She can’t seem to do very much independently. But the news is on. Her picture. A woman is believed to have been abducted from a nursing home in Kensington and the man…. He switches it off in a panic.

‘The world is cruel. What life have you got, a good-looking woman in your sixties in a nursing home? Life’s only beginning for us, darling.’ Perhaps he can take her away to another country. Make her better. And she will marry him as she knows this is true love which is as rare as diamonds in the night sky.


Donna wakes at four in the morning. There is a strange man beside her, and she doesn’t know where she is. She just thinks she should be really quiet. She slips out of the door and walks in her nightdress out into the night. It’s so cold. She wishes she had her coat, but now she can’t remember where she came from. A pathway leads her onto a track, and the moon lights it for her. She keeps walking until she reaches the waters edge.

Bob wakes and finds he is alone. He searches everywhere, but she is gone. Then he sees the police lights and hears the sirens. They’re coming. ‘Donna,’ he hisses. ‘Where are you?’

Then he sees a crumpled body hunched over in a little rowing boat down on the shore. He rushes over, and Donna is there, curled up and crying.

‘It’s okay, I’m here. I’ve got you.’

He wraps his coat around her. He pushes them out into the water and rows gently.

‘Don’t cry now, Donna, we need to be so, so quiet.

She is quiet, so quiet at one point he isn’t sure she is still breathing. Still, he rows.

Then she says, ‘Bobby, is that you? I’m so cold. Can you lift me back to Mum and

Dad? Please?’

‘Yes, it’s me. I’m here.’ He’s crying now. His precious butterfly that he loves so much is being crushed in his own stupid hands. ‘We just have to wait a little longer.’

The police boat has a huge searchlight that beams right past them. He can surrender, and she will be saved. Her chill healed and a warm bed provided. He will be in jail. He can’t do it, and so calls out to them.

‘Here. We’re over here,’ and with that, he throws himself overboard. At first, instinct

has him grasping at the boat, but when he sees how violently this rocks it, he lets go. Freezing

water fills his nose and mouth. He tries not to cry out so as not to upset her as it closes in over

his head and his body starts its descent down some three hundred feet.

The light from the police boat searches across the black water.

            ‘I was sure I heard something, sarge,’ said Peter Maclaughlin.

            ‘Aye. Must’ve been the bloody seals or something. That fella is long gone I’ll bet you.

He’d never be so stupid as to take a woman with dementia onto the water at night.’

            ‘No. Course not.’

To see other short stories click here

Climate Change – what can I do?

Climate Change – what can I do?

Climate Change – what can I do?

There’s an elephant in the room. Our climate is not just changing but it’s breaking down and people don’t want to talk about it.

I want to talk solutions.

Stuff we can do. Stuff that makes a difference.

I sometimes wrestle with black and white thinking. If I can’t do the whole climate change life thing perfectly, then why bother at all? But it hurts to bury my head in the sand because the truth is I really do care about it. I always cared about it. I am nature lover and I don’t like the cruelty, greed, littering, polluting and so on that comprises human disrespect of the planet.

So I’m going to look at it as parts of a jigsaw.

If I can’t get it perfect today with my carbon footprint, what one thing can I do?

I like to think of sowing seeds. Ask the question (see my other blog called ‘Ask the Right Question’) ‘what is one thing I can do today to help towards the conservation of planet earth?’

Maybe it’s to shop in a more eco-friendly shop, or choose less plastic and more eco-friendly products in the shops I do use. As a mother of three, I’m well aware that some of the eco-friendly choices are more expensive. But actually, some of them are cheaper.

There are a lot of people out there asking the same question so it’s worth seeking them out so you don’t have to reinvent the wheel. After a quick search on Facebook of climate change followed by the name of the area I live in I realised there were lots of initiatives happening close by that I didn’t even know about.

This month’s copy of National Geographic is full of inexpensive home remedies we can use that do less harm to the environment, from beauty products to homemade laundry soap.

Grow it yourself

To reduce plastic and the carbon used to transport foods a ridiculous distance, grow your own. If you have a garden or access to an allotment there is a lot you can grow yourself. Sure, the carrots might not take off this year and you will learn as you go along, but don’t underestimate the ripple effect this has. Other people hear about it, taste your homegrown treats, and perhaps want to do the same. I love this book on the power of growing your own by artist and grower Lisa Fingleton. 

We need to make the shift away from fossil fuels and towards renewable energies.

Many of us are reliant on fossil fuels to heat and power our homes. It’s just not feasible to change everything in one day, so what can I do today? Look up ways of changing to more renewable energy, thinking of long-term goals as well as short ones. Wear extra clothes on cooler days to reduce the amount of home heating needed.

Many people have started out local groups and have put them up on social media to help share ideas on what we can do to help in both small and big ways.

What is Ecocide and what can I do about it?

Serious damage to, or destruction of, the natural world and the Earth’s systems. Making the people who commission it – such as chief executives and government ministers – criminally liable for the harm they do to others while creating a legal duty of care for life on Earth. Click here to sign the petition and here to give as little as a €5 once off donation and become an Earth Protector to stop ecocide and change the law.

It is said that just a hundred companies are responsible for almost three-quarters of global emissions, and so doesn’t that mean that the government should just come along and sort it all out? The sad news is, they haven’t been doing. Things are looking up in some ways though. Just a few days ago in Ireland, a Climate Emergency was declared, as well as in the UK and other countries. The more the general public demands clean energy, zero plastic and so on the more they have to listen to us and do something. It all filters down.

You are powerful. Your voice matters.

You don’t need to be Greta Thunberg or Sir David Attenborough to make a difference. Talk about it. Share stuff on social media (all shares of this blog much appreciated too btw). Choose to buy from companies that respect the environment. Leave the ones that don’t. Tell them why. Write to or comment on social media why you don’t want to buy from them.

Ask or write to your local politicians. They are anxious to please, especially around election time and your questions may make a difference. Encourage others to do the same.

Use your talents

If you love photography, why not volunteer to take some photos at an eco-friendly event you can attend? Love writing? Write about it, share it. Love speaking, speak about it. Love gardening? Share your gift with others and show them what to plant and how to help the bees, plant more trees or grow your own. Good at organising people? Help to organise an event near you or start your own. Focus on your strengths and how these could be of service if you have any spare time to give.

Who to look up/follow on social media

These lists are far from exhaustive and apologies for the many I have missed: Polly Higgins (RIP, 2019, but her movement goes on and the resources on her page are invaluable); Greta Thunberg; Greenpeace; Climate Camp; Franny Armstrong; Eric Pooley; Bill McKibben and many more. Even by just liking and sharing someone else’s efforts, you are helping the message get more reach and keeping climate breakdown top of mind.

Hashtags to use/follow: #ecocide #pollyhiggins #gretathunberg #climatechange #climateaction #climate #climatebreakdown #globalwarming #ecologicalbreakdown #arctic #nature #environment – many of the Instagram-only ones are prefixed with ‘insta,’ e.g. #instaclimatechange

Think grass roots action.

“You can argue all day about whether one person not using straws or going vegan makes a global difference. The point is the mindset. We need to change our thinking from this idea that the earth is a bottomless pit of resources and start acting like what we do matters. Changing the philosophy of cultures and societies starts with individuals changing their own hearts and minds. That’s the importance of grassroots action. It’s not that my composting will empty landfills of food waste, but my changed mind and heart may influence others. And that could spread and change the world.” – Olga Evans

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