The Wick: 1

The Wick: 1
18/4/2026


I woke with the lark. Or should I say, the crow. Its silhouette was ratatat-tapping on my window early doors: 6:30am. I’d forgotten to draw the studio bedroom curtains and my new corvine chum was clearly enamoured with his own reflection. Or he was seeing off the competition. I stumbled down ever steepening stairs to confront my own reflection. I recognise that smiling whilst brushing one’s teeth is an odd habit. It made me think of Dr Love, the long-gone father of a rugby teammate. He’d retired early to make violins, only coming out of his shed on Saturdays to watch his son Simon play. On one of those days, as I removed my gum shield to shake his congratulatory hand, he offered me this wisdom: “Folk don’t trust people who smile too much Trevor. Your teeth were too white.” This medical advice was clearly prescribed for a budding narcissist. That was nearly 50 years ago. And this morning I gurned a grey smile as I flossed. Too much coffee and red wine. I pushed my teeth into the back of a grimace and cursed Dr Love. After porridge, I took Raymond Carver’s ‘Cathedral’ to the sea, found a dune, sat and read.

The first story ‘Feathers’ reminded me of peacocks. Which in turn reminded me of Betty. My mum loved peacocks; collected their feathers and fed their young. The rest of her village hated the things; they screeched like beaten babies; “mayawe, may-awe” their dawn chorus as they scratched and shat on everyone’s cars. My dad’s cherished Skoda ‘Octavia’ testified to that. Terry hated the peacocks too, but his children were sworn to secrecy. Apparently peacocks personify immortality and renewal; an irony likely not lost on Betty; even in her deepening dementia. I hope that she still dreams of their iridescent beauty.
A flash of turquoise as the sun found the offing; a young American couple with two baby twins sat close enough for me to sense the need for diaper-duty. Spell broken, like a blinking tail disappearing into the blue, I made my way to The Anchor for an early pub lunch. A minuscule battered loin of cod, with chips and broccoli was washed down with a half pint of alcohol free ‘Ghost Ship’. No amount of citrus and hops could atone for its mean spirit. Two elderly ladies on the next table were rattling: something about a ‘roving rector’ and asparagus. The more decrepit of the two had invited the rector back for dinner but had forgetfully duplicated her previous offering: “And didn’t he tell me so! Didn’t stop his moaning until he ran out of breath, and that took a while…” The offending crispy duck pancake (“with piquant plum sauce”) sounded tasty to me, but our picky parson simply wasn’t having it. “How was your cod?”, asked my waitress. “Poultry!” I replied a little too hastily. The decrepits glared: they’d clearly caught me listening in. “Get down Gus!” one of them barked as I offered their humungous dog a conciliatory chip. As I beat a retreat past their now sleeping wolfhound, apparently ‘Asparagus’, I pushed my tongue into the back of my teeth and gave them a smile that Dr Love wouldn’t have trusted, but would surely have understood. I shuffled back to the studio to write this blather and snooze, only to be awoken by, you’ve guessed it, the ratatat-tapper’s return. He’s out there now, scowling back at me like a roving rector who’s been offered one crispy duck too many. I’ve even named the upstart. ‘Morse’ of course.