A few kinkajous for Boomer’s mother

Or the contents of Jane Birkin’s handbag

Jul 13, 2025

Nine unfinished micro-essays at the intersection of fiction and document

1

I couldn’t figure out the ending. My opening was strong but the last line? It let the whole piece down. I’d spent days writing it and somehow couldn’t bring it to a satisfactory conclusion. Then I swapped the opening for the closing and it worked. The first became the last and all that. It probably took me three hours to come up with that fix which meant I missed the last bus. No Uber here and the station was in the next town. I knew a guy who’d do it cheap, off the meter, but he didn’t answer. Neither did his uncle who would have done the same deal so I went legit, called another number. It would cost me but hey, I’d gotten that line right. When the taxi came I muttered something about a cash deal and got a lecture from the driver in return. Not about legality but about correctness, about service, about things being run properly, done properly. I watched the meter tick up and over my budget as we pulled up to a set of traffic-lights that felt like they’d stay red forever. There was another taxi ahead of us. “He does cheap fares” said my driver shaking his head. “And look at the pile of crap he drives. I wouldn’t be seen dead in a 2017 Audi Avant.” I thought about my last line, about what it was going to cost me, about fixes and deals and doing things right. About rates and rules and fares and just getting there. About red lights and full stops and finishing things off […]

2

[…] thinking a lot about being on the edge of things, on the periphery, finding myself on the fringes1 […] and as you approach the border you become aware both of endings and beginnings. Out at the boundary you will discover that instead of being on the edge you will have come to a place of in-betweens. I decide that I have not been pushed to the limit. I, I am at the frontier. And the view is pretty damn good from here […]

3

The poets are squeaking, excitedly announcing their names on the long list, their poetries on the short list, their works on the right list, the good list, the hot-tip-top list. All of their poems are poem shaped. Neatly folded paper darts they aim at an open window high on the fourteenth floor of an office building that is staffed entirely by people well practiced in the art of folding paper, of throwing paper darts. Occasionally a well flighted dart will glide effortlessly through the tiny opening. And there are squeals of excitement. And there is silent disappointment. And there is a pile of crumpled paper in the street down below. No one is thinking about throwing stones at the window. I look around for a well weighted rock and consider there must be other windows, other buildings, other ways of folding paper […]

4

There are two types of artist: “Look at me!” artists and “look at this” artists, two kinds of poets, “Listen to me!” poets and “listen to this” poets. Two sorts […]

5

I got a message the other morning. “Can you do me a massive favour?” It read. I’m all for doing people favours. I like doing people favours. I’ll do you a favour if you ask me nicely. Just don’t add measure to your request: ‘Can you make a small change / I need a little help / it’s just a tiny thing.’ The value placed upon the favour, I find, is never equal to the task. I’ll tell you if it’s big or small. But a massive favour. I’m thinking it may involve taking a pre-packed suitcase to Dubai or burning down a barn or possibly a hit: I’m given a photo and a revolver wrapped in a soviet era newspaper. So, what is it? “Can you leave a review of my book on Amazon?”

‘Y’ has published a number of books with Amazon. His first novel has around twenty glowing reviews from readers. His second just one. And this troubles him. And I understand why. For in our world of delicate invention and fragile fiction, what people say about the stories that we craft not only gives them a sense of credibility it makes them entirely believable. A story without a story to support it is no story at all. And so it begins. “Wtf bro,” he messages me the day the review goes live. “I needed a favour,” he says. “No” I say, “you needed a review.” “But it’s not even what the book’s about,” he says. “Look,” I say, “it doesn’t matter what the book is about, what matters is that someone is talking about it.” […]

6

Most contemporary poetry is either highly refined middle-class misery or it’s earnest, honest and utterly artless. Most sentences that begin ‘Most’ are […]

7

Jane Birkin’s handbag sold at auction for $10 million to cheers and loud applause as the hammer fell on the final bid. Inside the bag were a pair of nail clippers. There is debate about whether the nail clippers belonged to the original owner or not. People are having this conversation. This is what is being talked about, written about. This is the discussion and this is why the world is going to hell in a hand cart. Or handbag […]

8

73.2 % of the outrage directed at The Salt Path is from people who haven’t read it. They’re simply appalled by any suggestion that there maybe inconsistencies, a lack of veracity. I don’t care whether it’s true. It’s a story. Is it well written is the question. I’d say it’s reasonably well told. The writer uses the word “swash” too many times in the Prologue for my liking. It’s one of those books. I mean, it isn’t great art but who cares about great art?

I’d stand and loudly applaud the author and her partner for undertaking the walk, less so for the manner in which it’s recorded. Bravo for taking action. Ho hum for the writing. But the writing, apparently, doesn’t matter much anymore. It’s the story that’s important. And this is a good story about two very nice people who had money and then didn’t and then sort of went camping. It’s kinda like Glastonbury for book lovers. Coldplay headlining. It hits the right amount of emotional notes but isn’t entirely satisfying. It’s basically the middle-class dream gone sour, revived and resolved with a comforting ‘Ahhh’ at the end.

There are lots of stories like this, the overcoming adversity type framed entirely for the bourgeois book buyer. The middle-classes produce them and consume them because they find them reassuring. They are appalled when there’s a sniff of dishonesty to undermine their belief in a system dependent on property and prosperity. All must be won fairly, lost unjustly, regained virtuously. Everything must be OK in the end. It usually is. There will be other homes to go to, other friends to borrow money from.

Not so with the story of the single mother struggling to pay rent on benefits, not for the kid from a housing estate trying to escape a cycle of violence, not for the ex-serviceman on the streets still at war with himself. No, these stories don’t have the right kind of resolution, rarely is there a redemptive arc. Certainly they are not worthy of art, a best selling book, a lucrative film deal. The best they can hope for is a BBC 2 documentary. Perhaps with some sad music at the end, a long shot of the mother and child on a beach in a rundown coastal town as the titles roll. Swash […]