We have pulled over three times already, trying to identify the source of the squeaking in my grandparent’s station wagon. ‘Just ignore it!’ my grandmother implores, but my grandfather is resolute. ‘I’m not going to listen to a bloody squeakRead more…
The jetty is wide, built out of greying wood and rusted metal. The morning sun gleams and glitters on the ocean, casting shadows onto the row of old fishing boats docked in a wavering line. We sit on the edge,Read more…
We packed tshirts, thongs and bathers, toothbrushes, croissants and snacks – crisps, oranges. Sunscreen. Condoms, lube and toys. I packed perfume and lipstick, high heels, my diary, Catherine Malabou’s The Ontology of the Accident. Tissues. And he packed chewing gum,Read more…
