Cinquain Santa

In three weeks time it will be Christmas day.

This means I have twenty-one days to summon up some Christmas cheer and get into the spirit of things.

It’s a tough ask.

Perhaps I should use my first faltering step into the not-covered-by-haiku world of poetry to highlight the particular Christmas issue I face.

Ladies and gentleman, may I present Santa: A Cinquain.


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A Beginner’s Guide To The AfroWelsh

Around about this date nine years ago I moved to Johannesburg from the UK.

My wife still thinks I did this so we could have a better standard of living, get married, have kids and generally set up the life we have now.

The truth is, however, that I was approached by the South African embassy and asked if I’d be willing to relocate in order to make room for the one remaining South African not yet living in London to take my place. It seems immigration was being handled like a car park on match day – one in, one out. Some money changed hands and off we went.

OK so I made that up.

The money bit. Everything else is true.

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A flash fiction piece I recently submitted – word limit of 150 and had to use the word paper. Short and sweet – the perfect two minute read for a busy Saturday!


“…migraine. I can’t drive.”

“Look it’s terrible timing. We’ve got to present to the client on Friday and…”

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