I have counted them all and gathered them up into a collection of short stories called Thirteen Hundred Crumbs.
Every week I will post a few crumbs here on my blog, extracts from stories that are waiting in the wings, ready to be swept off their feet onto the pages of a book and into the homes of crumb lovers everywhere.
So do excuse me, because now, even after all these years, all the gigs, all the laughter I have tried to squeeze out of audiences there are still crumbs in my comedy.
Crumbs from the story SPIT AND POLISH
Grandpa John comes in for the kiss. He smells of Germolene. His head, shoes and nails are as shiny as the one -pound coin he’s holding up high, like it’s a golden doubloon just in from a shipwreck. It’s the last Friday of school term, before we finish up for the long summer that is never hot. We’ve just had our lunch, a pastie from Marks & Spencer, dead posh.
Grandpa John never just hands over the pound coin, so that I can say “thank you”, then head back down to school. Instead he pinches it so tight I expect it to be bruised by the time I get it. The wiry red hair on his hand and fingers is tufty and looks like it’s been stuck on badly. His nails are shiny, like he’s spent ages polishing them.
My nails are stubby and the cuticles are ragged and misshapen. My mam tells me that I should push the cuticles down or my nails won’t be able to breathe properly. I think she’s daft for saying that, though, because I don’t think that nails can suffocate...
IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO FOLLOW THE TRAIL OF CRUMBS ON THIS STORY PLEASE CONTACT ME DIRECTLY ON firstname.lastname@example.org
IF YOU ARE A PUBLISHER, THEN PLEASE GET YOUR PEOPLE TO TALK TO MY PEOPLE.