Courtes histoires écrites par Pat’ en anglais

Recently I decided it about time to invest in a phone case, fearful as I was of catastrophic deconnection. Basing my choice of repair shop on its homely decor and subdued mood lighting, I strolled in. The welders goggles really came in handy I mused. The face of the chirpy and well dressed man behind […]

We pulled up around the rear of the warehouse, expecting the personnel to be long gone. Crunching to a stop, a dishevelled head jumped out from a corrugated iron shed. A tuft of hair stuck proudly high of his crown. A fan of noel gallagher I gathered. We were greeted by a fresh faced middle-aged

Cracking up in a self-contained fit of raspy laughter, Juan’s eyes flitted to and fro, seeking his public out. His left hand clasped around a bushel of lavandin, he inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with its scent. A hardcore herbal head. Check your pockets. 5 foot nothing and bright eyed he chatted amicably  away, bursting

I pass in front of the museum. “How do you pronounce Lyon in english?” a tourist muses, the concept of foreign languages clearly beyond his grasp. “Lion” is the inane response. Walking through the train station on my lunch break I spot a teenager wearing a boy band t-shirt: “If I die today, tell Harry

Her hair pulled severely back in an oil-slick ponytail, she nodded gruffly at us in the stairwell. “Bonsoir”, the voice grumbled, the dapper cocker spaniel wagging by her side. She pulled the lead tight and climbed on, her stride never faulting. We would cross paths almost daily, never managing to break the ice nor scratch

With the heavy scrape of laden legs he made his way along the corridor. The pace was irregular, the scrapes resonating to an uncomfortable offbeat timing. Some were lingering while others rose to a curt crescendo as his well worn sandals used the flagstones as a braking surface. He cut a gloomy figure in the

Lunch on a park bench. Anti-SDF armrests forcing my elbows uncomfortably upwards. The slip of a camping spoon in a plastic box. Hot air, a grey haze, a deep sense of insatisfaction. The grass was overcast, tinted with the ink of the glowering sky. A gardener walked by, his idling strimming machine puffing the earth’s

Ouch, ow, ooh, the inner gnashing of teeth. I hold my back ramrod straight, tensing my muscles against the cold slop of cream. I buck involuntarily as each dollop shoots bolts across my back. Once done, I rejoice in my newfound freedom of movement, the skin hydrated and supple once more. Tomato, beetroot, a spongecake

Her mouth pursed by a scaffolding of deep set wrinkles she looked on in wide-eyed stupefaction as I spooned another helping of warm sticky porridge into my mouth. Her attempt at subtle reprobation was upset every so often by a wet cluck. This was followed by a rapid upwards and sidewards shift of her head