All About Me
Click here to read the openings of the stories in the collection
The Owl and The Pussycat: The Piggy-
In the beginning was the Bong-
tree. Emblem and spiritual guide of our land for a thousand generations before me and, so the prophecies foretell, a thousand more to come. I stand and gaze upon it and wish, now that the time of decision is coming, that it would give me a sign. What will be The Question, what answer will I be required to give?
The two strangers are consulting with each other now and, I believe, will soon be asking me The Question. For a year
Is This The Way To...?
Some believe that technology started when man first struck a block of stone with a pebble to shape from it the Neolithic axe. Some believe it has now reached its ultimate form in the shape of free downloadable Internet pornography. Whatever the truth of these two opinions,
The Doorway of Wonderful Things
Sally Taylor creeps into the corridor between the science wing and the old mathematics block and glances around, heart pounding. Somewhere, Jessica Hardman is waiting to pounce. It’s as inevitable as Sally passing her maths test this afternoon with top marks. It’s just a matter of when it’ll happen.
Her mobile plays the opening chords of
Best Song Ever
, and her stomach lurches; sweat trickles down the inside of her blouse. She
Jonas Taylor slipped through the door of the Dawn Colley tea rooms in South Melton, trying to make himself as small as possible. He felt the reassuring bulk of the knife in the right-
hand pocket of his bomber jacket -
at the same time it troubled him, he was sure someone was bound to notice it. He decided to do the job right away. Straight in and straight out -
get it over with.
dozen people were queuing
Nobody laughed when the elderly man appeared on Court 16 on the first day of the Wimbledon Championships. Even though he was dressed, head to toe, in tennis whites and was obviously there to play. His opponent, busy arranging his bananas and bottles of water to his satisfaction, didn’t so much as
“Are you sure this is the right place?”
Declan Roberts stamped his feet on the snow-
covered path and exhaled deeply, eyeing his foggy breath with a critical air. Ahead of him, the wooden door of the house stood, a solid four-
panelled structure neatly painted in fawn. On the single stone-
grey step leading to the door, his colleague Helen Mackenzie, having rattled the knocker for the third time, glanced back at him. “This is the address
How Santa Claus Was Born
“Dashing through the snow, in a one-
horse open sleigh... Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas!”
From inside the cab located diagonally behind and beneath the singer, a plaintive voice responded: “Hey, Nicky, can ya cut down on the melodials a little? I can’t hear myself countin’ the loot back here.”