P. D. Clifton

OK, I’m pretty sure I’m not the first blogger to call their last post THE LAST POST. But I couldn’t resist! (If I could work out how to have the plaintive bugle notes of the actual Last Post play, when you click on this post, I would. But I can’t, because I’m a tech-idiot).  …

It’s mid-March and it’s been a beautiful, sunny spring day… with some of the crispness of autumn, but without the dread of winter which begins to grow once you get older (particularly if you’ve recently moved to the countryside – into an old draughty house). It’s now seven-thirty and it’s getting darker – the clocks…

The previous post (‘Relapse?’) was written in June 2022… a month or two after I completed the rest of this journal. The original ending to the journal – written back in March 2022 – is next and is called ‘The Actual Proper End’ (so you don’t get it mixed up with any earlier endings you…

‘Piers?’ ‘Piers?’ I hear Lizzie’s faint voice and stumble back into consciousness. ‘What time is it?’ ‘Two thirty,’ whispers Lizzie. It’s indeed two thirty in the morning (I see on my iPhone) and Lizzie’s woken me up because she’s feeling sick. Very sick. She also has a bad pain in the middle of her abdomen.…

I’m sitting in the garden with my Mum. The large trees in front of us are swaying and swishing peacefully. My Mum loves sitting in our garden. And I’m glad she does – it assuages some of the guilt I feel about encouraging her to move up to the Midlands to be near us (she’s…

‘Where does this go?’ ‘Where does THIS go?’ ‘WHERE DOES THIS GO?’ Lizzie has asked Jake to empty the dishwasher… and now, every time Jake takes something out of the dishwasher to put away, he loudly asks: ‘WHERE DOES THIS GO?’ He’s also taking out one thing at a time, so it’s taking ages. ‘WHERE…

It’s first thing in the morning and I’m stumbling, bleary-eyed, into the kitchen. Lizzie is already there, standing at the kitchen table. In front of her is some kind of large, extraordinary contraption. Motors are whirring away inside it, causing coloured liquids to shoot along pipes sticking out of the thing at various angles. ‘Morning…

I’m walking through our local town on Saturday morning, having dropped Annie off at football training. There’s a festival going on in the centre of town. There are endless festivals in this place. Literary festivals, food festivals, river festivals, you name it. Festivals are obviously a big money-spinner for the town. Me and the kids…