Postcards from Kronk - the second collection of daily stories. (2025)

I saw the boy running with his cheeks all puffed up, at once comical and heroic, his tiny body struggling to harness all the energy it held. Running to catch up with the adults and that, rather than the head of the captured Chopra is my lasting memory of that night, youth running to grow up too quickly.

There were four of us and we were invincible in our youth. We went throught the yellow trees, following a line we'd drawn on an ordanance survey map. And then we saw it, in a clearing, all clean lines and glass panels, scandinavian details in the nooks, our treasure. We opened the door Then we climbed the steps Then we avoided the room that Simon Le Bon and and Nick Rhodes were skulking in. (Bring me the hammer, bring me the hammer) Then we did stuff, lots of stuff, noises were heard for miles, the sound of us doing things, noisy things. Then we climbed back up the steps Then we opened the door again, this time the other way, to the outside and then we got into the car and went back to town. Fourteen months later Duran Duran wrote Wild Boys and I was on my way to Hull, our paths would never cross again.

One dental hygienist avoids an unwelcome approach by a rival dental hygenist angry that they have been given the better gown. Two student teachers hide from bullies, colleagues or pupils, who knows? Three coconut shy manufacturers narrowly miss being hit on their heads as they gather coconuts. Four assassins pass by without noticing each other (phew). Five shot-putters put off being shot by Six angry lawnsmen who are looking for moles. Seven newspaper clairvoyants knew when to hide from Eight let down speed daters still searching for love. Nine pork chops dream of being lamb. and Ten farm workers escape tornado. I watch all this happening and draw it on little pieces of paper which I give to folk as I cycle through the town. They all thank me and then, after seeing the pictures some of them shake their fists.

Where are you going Noggin? I need to make my peace with the angry builder. Then I intend to give the taxi driver his wig back. After that I will visit the shop keeper and make good the damage to his refrigerator. Finally I will say sorry to the policewoman. When will you do that Noggin? Maybe next week, today I am cooking hair wrapped chicken in a bucket.

The first phantom voters were seen in Masvingo, a small city in Zimbabwe, the invisible work force that keeps the world turning and were never meant for our eyes. Our scepticism had killed off all we couldn't see or measure and finding ourselves abandoned, the most influential and powerful men of Earth created an army of silent watchers to watch,measure, record and vote; to take care of business. The phantoms, hidden until today. This then, is the Black age, where once we had gods and nature we now have democracy but knowledge is indeed power and Africa is purring once more, calling to its children.

I am watching myself, almost eleven, its teatime and Frank Bough is on television discussing the prophesies of Nostradamus. Running upstairs, I appear to be alone in the house but that’s memory fitting events to emotions. I see my reflection in the small mirror above my dressing table, the tears forcing their way out. Am I attempting to hold them back ? like I did whenever Seasons in the Sun came on the car radio; not wanting my parents or God forbid, my sister to see me so weak. Or am I forcing them out, eager to feel everything and anything, hampered as I am by a remarkably content uneventful life. Frank has just told me I will die before I've even kissed a girl. The end of the world is due before I am sixteen and I know I won't be ready.

If a photo was taken from above overlooking the city zoo tiger enclosure, the dividing wall between the car park and the said enclosure may not have been visible to the naked eye as it was very very thin. The new one currently being built will be much much thicker.