I’m really pleased and excited to share that my zine, A Place To Be, is now available to pre-order with Pellicle.

I spent the best part of last year writing this, working on short pieces that explore the moments of freedom and strangeness of being outside of reality for a moment. What I like most about liminal spaces is how lost it’s possible to be in the moment. I’ve found that when I’m sitting with a pint, thinking, there’s a different sensation of normality, somehow enhanced, as though the realities I’ve been wading through are all inventions in my head. I wanted to explore memorable places where time slips, and in A Place To Be, try to describe how it feels to be somewhere outside of your conventional schedule, enjoying the glitch.

A Place To Be includes four original works, and two re-worked pieces you may have seen me experiment with in this newsletter before — My Favourite Pub is a Petrol Station Forecourt, and The Bar on board the Manxman. These have been completely rewritten — I knew what I wanted to say when I wrote them to begin with, but they never had the impact I wanted. I think now they’re closer to what I hoped for.

This is the first print publication by Pellicle, and I’m really proud that our magazine is branching out into print. Pre-ordering A Place To Be is super important, because it helps us understand how in-demand a print magazine might be. It also shows us how many to order from the printers.

The zine itself was designed by me, with some phone photos by me, and brilliant illustrations by Hannah Robinson. I thought you might like a preview, so here’s a piece I’ve selected to brighten up the grey January weather.

A balcony, on holiday

I’m alone. The shower’s going, so I’ve got at least 20 minutes to myself to decompress from a busy afternoon of wandering, looking and snacking. The wine in front of me is a cold glass of local white poured from the fridge, extra-refreshing in the late afternoon heat.

Salty fingers from salty crisps, I’m looking over my balcony wall towards the tiny glimmer that is the sea, then down into the crowded narrow street below. Here, I don’t exist, observing this perfect moment unseen, sipping my drink and feeling the world continue in my absence.

The wine is good. We are in Spain, and I pour another glass as a nearby church tolls a bell for some evening congregation. Golden hour is approaching, and my skin has caught the sun. A long night stretches lazily ahead—most places aren’t even open for dinner yet. The sound of a scooter buzzing down a side street combines with the smell of its exhaust fumes. Above, there are sparrows in the gutters, chirping like a videotape rewinding.