Hello ladies and blokeyfolk.

I have another Flash Fiction story for you all that I wrote one Saturday for a competition (you know, the ones where you write for thirty minutes in a blind panic, in the perpetual hope that you’ve written the most amazing piece of coherent gubbins that will generate you fame, fortune and glory to rival Ernest Hemingway but comes out like it was written by Ernest P. Worrell instead – I’m joking of course) and then I completely forgot I had written the blooming thing.

Silly sausage!

Just a word of advice to all those people not in the UK or don’t know what Battersea is famous for – read the story first then try searching in Google for (funnily enough) – “What is Battersea famous for”.

The punchline will then make more sense – I hope.

Also, just to clarify for my American friends – the NHS is the National Health Service provided by the UK Government.

In other news, I have a podcast that I just launched with a friend of mine, which I will blog about in a separate post. We will be reviewing Sci-Fi, Dystopia and Horror films, TV Shows, Books and Comic Books, so if that kind of thing floats your boat then look out for it!

Happy reading folkerinos and thank you for your support!

It’s In the Bag (by David Ellis)

Obsession runs rife in our family.

We don’t want one, we want them all. It all started with fairly innocuous little items – cards, coins, stamps, buttons, comics, films, musicals and now this.

I should have known better but the temptation was sitting there, all coy and full of wide-eyed wonder.

My old Mum always used to look me square in the eye and tell me that it would be the death of me if I didn’t stop. I used to laugh at her and tell her to shut up. She was my Step-Mum after all and not worth listening to.

At least that’s what I used to tell myself. Until the accident.

Hospital granted me more opportunities, additional ways to be able to ply my trade. The nurses at my local clinic are young, naive and impressionable – a wink, a nod and a turn of phrase gets them every time.

It never used to happen once either, I used to get them all riled up and wanting more, time and time again they kept coming back, looking for a little slice of the action.

I never feel bad about taking advantage of them, they can afford it, what with all of these government grants and other whatnots flowing into their paypackets. Some of us have to earn a crust after all and I’m practically doing them a service that you wouldn’t get on the NHS.

Companionship.

All those lonely nights left alone, after a hard shift, coming back to an empty flat.

We all have needs, we all need that little bit of comfort we crave in our hearts, minds and bellies, that arm around the shoulder to soothe, to cleanse, to ease away the frustrations, the aches and pains of our uncaring worlds.

My last girlfriend did not take kindly to all of the late night phone calls. Constantly in tears she was, that I would be willing to keep giving myself away to all of these other, eager, hungry women at the drop of a hat.

But that’s just the way I am, that’s the way I roll and there isn’t nobody on earth that is going to change me. I’m going back to Battersea tomorrow to get me some more. They all crave attention just like me, we get on like a house on fire.

Maybe one day I will keep one for myself but until then, relationships are for pussies.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.