My friend the kettle

IT had been a long, hard drive. Frances had left early, hoping to get away before the rush hour – only to discover that the rush hour started earlier still. She stopped for a break further south than

GRAN, you know I love the hotel. But I’m not the person you need,” Emma said. “You publicise those events you run,” her gran, Betty, replied. “I’m sure you could use some of those skills to help build

THE clamour of seagulls woke Frances. For a moment, she was disorientated. Not so much in place – she knew this bedroom well – as in time. She had the odd feeling that none of the last 30-odd years ha

So, what do you think we should get Elsie this year? She’ll be a hundred and one next Saturday.” Jemma beckoned her husband over to her laptop where ‘Granny Gifts’ ranging from bird baths to potted ja

I PULLED back the living-room curtains and stopped singing along to the radio, frozen to the spot. How could this be? It was a beautiful morning. The sun was shining, the birds had been singing up a s

THE first thing that met Lily’s eyes, when the lift doors drew back to show the fourth floor open-plan offices of Dill Pickle Design, was a trampoline. There was a huge, black rubber mat embedded in t