Professional awkwartist and occasional traveller.
Cambridge, England
Joined October 2020
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Not to complain about our non-existent wingers, but even North Macedonia's #8 Ezgjan Alioski puts more decent balls into the box than our very own.
#asroma – at Cambridge, England
From @Footy_Headlines: leaked 2024-25 Barcelona kit.
I think the guy in the picture is Paulo Dybala. Striking resemblance. Am I wrong?
@7ettedecoppe
#asroma #dybala #barcelona – at Drapia, Calabria
As much as it hurts to say it, I'll say it: the M in Roma stands for Mediocrity.
Wtf did they see in Celik???
#ASRoma – at Drapia, Calabria
Sila, George Gissing's Black Mountain, stood in silence from afar, clothed in trees green-not green, dark-not dark.
The rain thumped, digging holes in the soil; I sank, then sank some more; but Sila, her fat body a curtain between the east and west, survived.
#Italy #Calabria – at Dipignano, Calabria
"And the Country that was and its daisies, its tribal chants, its paths snaking around coconut trees disappeared under the water in front of them. They were now a tiny spot sliding above the sea, like their ancestors had been, searching for a new home."
#kiribati #climatechange – at Cambridge, England
I once walked into a Portuguese bakery. And when one does that and one's idea of the Iberian Peninsula is vague, vague is also the boundary between #Portugal and #Spain. So, I walked in and asked for a "pastel de nada". Only now I realize the risk I ran! #portunhol #sportuganish – at Cambridge, England
"Don't read too fast," said Sylvia Beach of Shakespeare and Company to a poor Ernest #Hemingway, sometime in the 1920s. And so did Francine Prose to all her readers. Like a golden autumn leaf, reading needs looking at from many angles. And then again—#beauty is easily forgotten. – at Cambridge, England
I, my stories, my characters, my ideas. We feel crunched by the weight of what others think say write choose. I point my finger at us: not good enough, no. And yet, it feels wrong to be ditched, belittled, even, by a comparison we make.
#Writing should not be about that. 1/ – at Cambridge, England
#Writing is indulging in the taste of words, in the sound they make when pronounced, like diving into a chocolate bar and getting lost in its dark flavour; it is about letting them play your tune; it is about directing the events or letting them direct you instead. 3/
Recently, I discovered that #writing is the subtlest way of talking about yourself, wearing different clothes and bearing a different name, but struggling all the same. It is about knowing yourself and letting forgiveness come into your life. Yes, it should be about that. 4/4 – at Cambridge, England
The language was ambushed and led to a dark corner, where it's being kicked in the ribs, hit in the head, spat at, and insulted by ignorants. But of all the pains cracking it, nothing compares to the greatest pain of all—not being recognised. We, the soulless freemen, walk past. – at Cambridge, England
I fell onto the slice of bread before me. While tumbling and shrinking, the bubbles became caverns, and I found myself inside one. I was warm, enslaved to the scent of yeast and burnt grains, Christmas-like euphoric, the crust protecting me from the wicked world without. #bread – at Cambridge, England
There's nothing anything that is not warm coffee can do for the heart. Its cellars are warmed, its flow revived, the veins repainted. And that mournful mind, furnished with all that is bleak and hollow and heavy and desperate, melts with the first sip. I long for a home not mine. – at Cambridge, England
They met for the first time at the breakfast table, the day before the wedding. Before them: three cups of coffee and three croissants, which were golden and sweet; and the priest, coated in a grey, inquisitive air and boasting a forged smile, which sweet was not. – at East, England
In #travelwriting, you say what you saw.
In #fiction, you say what you want to say.
In #dreams, no such rules exist. – at Lamezia Terme, Calabria
My eyes are set on something. Someone, somehow, must have placed a barbed wire the lenght of the Earth right where the air and sea kiss one another. Where their lips touch, iron spikes roll like a roasting piglet. I watch them in awe as the horizon bleeds calmness. #Tropea – at Tropea, Calabria
What he began loathing was not the idea of himself, but the idea of him being locked up in his mind-cell, deep into their ideas but away from their hearts, pains, dreams, and wholesomeness. He loathed others for being others, and others still for loathing him when he loved them. – at Drapia, Calabria
The narrow road winds down a hill and then up the other, cutting through some hardened, whitewashed sand. The crisp air of September makes me hungry. On one side, a cave opens up; a man would fit perfectly, but my mind is set on a slice of bread with holes as big as the cave. – at Dipignano, Calabria