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The dots


Polka dot thinking is inspired by the every day stories that weave around us.

It has nothing to do with such polka dot icons as Hello Kitty, Betty Boop and Minnie Mouse. It has everything to do with the observations and writings of a rational woman who owns a cuckoo clock and has an irrational fear of the number eight.

Polka dot thinking believes that the remarkable is in the ordinary and gets ridiculously excited over covert moments. The dots can appear in any form. In this blog, observations are turned into poems and fictional vignettes and Christmas Eve reflections are re-imagined into social commentaries.

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Revels and Rebels XIII

Dear Santa, I’m sat by the Christmas tree. The fairy lights twinkle, the baubles sparkle, and the clip-on-birds look really confused. The white dove is looking at me wondering where peace went, and the robin, having given up on Christmas, is taking a nose dive towards the floor. I understand the birds’ confusion. 2020 is the year where the world turned upside down and inside out. Bound at home, unable to hug friends and visit family, attempting disconnected living in a connected world. Which way is the North Star – who knows? We’re all a bit like Odysseus down here, stuck between a rock and a hard place. On one side you have the rock of reality eroded and twisted by politicians and media. The other side, the six headed monster of big Pharma trading health for profit and barking down contrary ideas to protect financial growth. One thing is for sure, Capitalism is not interested in paying the ransom for Freedom. You’ll be sad to learn that ‘Ho, ho, ho’ went out of the window mont
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Revels and Rebels XIV

Dear Santa, It's Epiphany. Twelfth Night. You're about to hang up your Christmas sack for the festive season and here I am writing to you with my last-minute request. I know, I'm as irritating as a Christmas Pudding that refuses to light no matter how much warm brandy you pour on it.  Soggy Christmas Pudding aside, there is a reason why this letter is late. I've been ruminating over what to wish for. And the thing is this - I still don't know what to wish for. My current plan, or hope, is that in writing to you I might write myself into my wish. The thing is this, since the pandemic began, I'm having trouble finding a way to live in the world. Working out what I must suffer, what I can change. How to navigate sorrow and joy. And how to live with the conflicts within whilst the noise of division and marginalisation rage all around. Sometimes, they become one of the same. Sounds confusing, right? And fuelling this confusion is the general level of fear we have to
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Mushrooms

Bacteria screams down the walls. I feel myself separate, drunk on the smell of fungus. Breath as manacled as my body. A rip of velcro is amplified by the darkness. A yellow mask looms over. Injection. Hot. Suffocating. Liquid burns through my veins. Words die within me. Stillness. A seed is planted in my mind. The roots are fierce, killing my memories. I grasp after the memory of eating potted crab sandwiches with dad while our toes dangle in the sea. Gone. I can feel it inside me. I’m an echo. Not my words. Not my breath. Inseparable from it. ----------------------- Reference: Highly commended, NYC Midnight Flash Fiction international writing competition Photo by Jaël Vallée on Unsplash
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