Saturday, June 01, 2013

Stories from the Apocalypse - Snowblind

It came in showers. We were not dressed for the occasion. In blue cords and shirt and brown jacketed watching. Half way between half way in an autumn greened free-flowing water fume stadium with men running the length of the pitch.

Up and down.

Waiting for the blow.

We sat and waited in awe as they ran the length of the pitch.

Sunday, January 24, 2010

We've moved ....

Dear Chroniclers,

in these torrid times of Credit Crunch and banking bonuses, needs must prevail. A tightening of collective belts sees the electrofrieds relocate from their ancient seat in the House to a smaller, humbler domain.

Well actually, the House of electrofried now takes so long to load we've decided to downsize and move into the shed next door. You can access the new blog via the link opposite.

If you're a seasoned follower of our family adventures, please do take out a subscription. We very much look forward to seeing you in our new abode, and Fetlock the Butler has a small glass of turnip hooch awaiting your arrival.

with very best regards,


Sunday, October 11, 2009


In a Secret Place

True Colours

Random House

Dear Chroniclers,

the nights begin to cut in once more, as we approach yet another Autumn in the House of electrofried.

You find me bunkered down in the more remote reaches of the West Wing, tapping away at the trusty Victrola, with little plan as to what will unfold below. So we travel together for just a few precious moments, you and I - the writer and the reader, joined in a transient electronic synapse. What currents will pass between us both?

A week of reflection. Two operations undergone by our eldest daughter, the unstaunched flow of blood within an unseen hospital room, rising up in platelets of iron-starved cells. Crying out, "Feed, me!"

The sound of joyous, innocent laughter spilling down an early morning telephone - our five month old grandson, dear Little Lamper. Visits in the night. The haunting silence of a twilight fading. It calls to me, "Be still, rest ... "

Each day I wake next to my dear, precious wife there's a new prayer of thanks to be said. For life, fresh and as long as the new-born. And whilst there is breath in me to be taken, I will say it. I am alive. I am dancing in these words, smiling from these ill-snapped photographs of life.

Come dance, too. While there's still precious time.

yours as ever,