McCaw Media

Tag: BBC Local Radio Writing Club

  • Poem: Building A Wardrobe

    My uncles came to stay with me when I got my new pad; They came to do some DIY for which I was quite glad. They put me up some pantry shelves and stood back with great pride; I watched as jars and bottles slowly slid down to one side. I bought a rotary washing…

  • Poem: My Home Gym

    I built myself a home gym so I could exercise, Replace my fat with muscle and tone my flabby thighs. My bingo wings I’d banish, my posture would improve, My body would be sculpted – how gracefully I’d move! I’d be so fit and agile, a marathon I’d run And maybe then I’d do a…

  • Short Fiction: Antonia’s Thank-You Letter

    Dearest Sylvie, Thank you so much for a splendid evening at your birthday party on Saturday. I can’t remember the last time I went to such a shindig. The birthday cake in the shape of Balmoral Castle was a triumph of the confectioners’ art, and it was such a shame that Steven’s mistimed swing of…

  • Short Fiction: Why Grandad Never Wore A Watch

    The front of the matchbox had a red background, with blue and white detailing in the corners, and in the middle was a white oval showing a blue drawing of a steam ship, which, curiously, also had rigging for sails. My grandad said it was a Victorian battleship called HMS Devastation, and he told me…

  • Short Fiction: The Melville

    My Nana had two mysterious things in her house – a locked cupboard and a ship in a bottle. I was never allowed to know what was in the cupboard, but I was allowed to look at the ship in a bottle, as long as I didn’t touch it. I spent hours staring at that…

  • Short Fiction: The Portrait

    So I says to Frankie, ‘How do I look Frankie?’ and he says, ‘Bellissima, doll, Bellissima!’ which me giggle, and I’m already like a cat with two tails because Frankie’s spent a cartload of money hiring that Leonardo da Vinci to do me portrait. He’s so generous, my Frankie. Anyway, it’d taken me a couple…

  • Memoir: Bikes

    Sometimes parents have to disappoint their children. And the younger you are when you are disappointed, the longer you have to brood about it and chew it over at family reunions. Take bikes. Dad would not let my brother and me have two-wheelers. Our terraced street which was a favourite haunt of driving instructors and…

  • Short Fiction: The Dealer

    Before he’s even opened his mouth I know what he wants. ‘Vinnie,’ I says to him. ‘I’ve told you before – it’s no good keep coming back, I ain’t got any and I can’t get me hands on any.’ ‘Have you tried—’ he starts. ‘I’ve tried everybody I knows and they’ve tried everybody they knows.…

  • Memoir poem: The Silence Of Saturday Teatime

    Every week my dad would write His Xs in the column: A ritual time-honoured, Almost sacred, always solemn. He diligently worked out – well, I say ‘worked out’, he guessed Which teams would win or lose or draw, Whose score would be the best. On Friday evening at the door The coupon man would be;…

  • Memoir: Windows

    The window I looked up to the sky through had a cracked pane, the result of my dad flailing a cardigan at an irritating bluebottle. The cardigan had a penny in the pocket – one of those big old heavy pre-decimalisation pennies, blackened and worn smooth through countless transactions in tills and endless jostling against…

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