Oh, the yeasty smell from the pizza shop as I cycled past, en route to my Creative Writing MA course at Salford University, setting my artistic juices going; I penned this suggestive poem with bated breath.
I read this poem at Lorraine’s funeral. Her imagined voice speaks to us, reflecting on her life as a polio survivor and disability activist. When I turned sixty, I felt distinctly mortal, realising I’d left the immortality of youth far behind.
As the clock displayed 00.01 am on 1st January 2000, we celebrated with our children, aged six, seven, nine and eleven. The feared computer bug never happened, but in 2020 a far more serious bug awaits our kids who are now adults.
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