25°C

I'm not coping with this hot weather, and I'm not liking being in work when I could be sunbathing. My boy's stuck in a kiosk cooking food for hungry revellers today, poor lamb.
At least all my washing is done, so I can go home and sit out in my garden without a care in the world. Bliss.

Cut-up Cymraeg

Mae angen cysgu pedwar hynny.
Methu aros tan Fehefin, ar ôl gwaith.
Fuck, dwi gwaith.
Mae hyn yn ofnadwy, na na. Ugain menthol, weld e eto, a wedi cael neges tecst, nawr, dwi bant fory lasagne. I ti a fi. Dwi fethu aros tan dwi'n gweld e heno a Dydd Mercher gyda dwi ddim mewn cariad, waith cyn i mi methu aros tan haf.
Dwi fili gweld e heno dwi mewn cariad.

*

My first go at a Welsh one. Goddamn I LOVE cut-ups.

Heddiw

Dwi'n cael amser caled heddiw. Mae rhaid i mi fod yn waith tan bedwar o'r gloch, ond mae fe'n aros yn fy nhŷ i fi ddod adre.
Cawsom amser braf neithiwr, ac mi wnes i bryd o fwyd blydi grêt hefyd - hwyaden gyda thatws 'Hasselback' a saws ceirios.
Pedwar awr cyn i mi weld e eto...

One More Sleep

One more sleep
til I see him again,
three sleeps together
and back to being apart.
Six sleeps then
til I see him again,
but I’m meeting his friends
and that’s as far as we’ve got.

Lllwnc destun (newydd spon)

Dwi wedi cael digon o hunan sensoriaeth erbyn hyn, felly o hyn ymlaen dwi ddim yn mynd i wneud hynny o gwbl.
Dyma lwnc destun newydd te, i ddathlu dechrau perthynas newydd, ac i'r gobaith fy mod yn mynd i ddysgu rhywbeth newydd tro hyn.

Gone Shopping (back in 5 mins)

"Good Morning customers and welcome to your local supermarket.
On aisle two in our reductions cabinet today,
we have on offer - Sonnets now reduced to half price. Thank you."
Aisle one offers a selection of refrigerated adjectives
vacuum-packed in clear plastic, date coded for years to come.
Opposite is the fresh counter, where you can buy the spoken word
in kilograms (they've just gone metric,
Imperial was far too confusing for the younger folk).
"Staff announcement: John Milton to 'Epic' dept. please."
Next to the counters is the bakery. Steaming hot speeches;
packs of four quotes; French epitaphs; Italian quatrains,
you can buy them all at next to nothing prices.
"Staff announcement: In-store Laureate to 'On' section please.
All along the back wall (crammed next to the Christmas goods –
lovely rhyming couplets for Gran, a limerick or two for Dad, and a few top twenty
songwords for big Sis), foil-sealed (for freshness) and stored
in gaudy coloured cardboard boxes, are the everyday words.
The nouns, syllables and parables can all be found here
bearing a logo or a tradename. Some even have free gifts:
pocket dictionaries, or extra pronouns if you're lucky.
"Staff Announcement: Sheenagh Pugh to Customer Service desk please."
Take a look in the frozen section. Ancient dialects, dead languages and even sign
are all there, stamped with a barcode and thawing instructions.
Promotion ends topple with the weight of stacked tins of punctuation marks;
each recyclable steel can brimming with commas and asterixes and semi-colons.
"Good Morning customers and welcome to your local supermarket.
At the front of the store today we have on offer:
Buy one Vowel and get the second absolutely free! That's at the front
of the store today. Thank you."
Cuneiform signs hang over every aisle, and people singing englynion is pumped
through vocoders and out into the shop-floor. No time to stop and look
at the spirants and neatly wrapped onomatopoeia.
"Staff announcement: Andrew Craig Williams to 'Bullshit' dept. please."

Hiding

It’s too early in the morning for thoughts
of clocks, or where I should be at this dim
hour; busy dozing under the big bloodshot
moon with a quilt of stars to ease my chill.
My pulsing breath escapes me gratefully,
hides my head in a haze of slow vapour.
I’m disguised outside, pretending to be
something else: a tree, or stone on the floor.
The earth I huddle on will revolve soon,
turn itself to the light and start again.
Shortly the day will begin with kitchen
sounds and cars and high voices, lights switched on.
I’m not ready to join them, clustering;
I’ll wait here a while longer, lingering.

**

I chose mostly half rhymes, because I wanted to emphasis the understated tone of the poem – I wanted to write something colourless, using only black and white. I think the sonnet is mostly about not wanting to participate in modern life and ways to achieve that.
I used iambic pentameter to show the routine of norm al life, kitchens and clocks etc. but the lines do stray from that when the poem mentions the moon, the ultimate clock for the natural world into which the voice hides.
The lines run over into each other because the poem is about a morning unfolding, the earth revolving and time moving on – I found that by not ending a line at the usual ‘end of the line’, it helped to create that feeling of movement.

His Mother

I remember the day he painted the door,
took four hours and only two drips.
He left little notes under the bread bin
to remind me to do something or other,
not sure he wasn’t reminding himself.
Never got on with Uncle Twm, a clash
there, his Nan used to say.
When did he get that exercise bike?
I forget now but it was two years in the box
before it went to the car boot.
To think he doesn’t even like chips.

Chloe dreaming

It’s quite early morning, but the birds have been shouting about it for hours. Enough time has passed to make the night revolve away, which has allowed a knife made entirely of golden light to creep slowly across the carpet, tickling along over the assorted teddy bears, knitted toys and books that are littering the floor. Before the knife has a chance to get to the small girl tucked up in her bed, head back, mouth open, snoring like a tiny steam train; the door opens and her mother walks in. She crosses the muddle of toys and opens the curtains; the knife becomes a river and floods the room with warm, morning light and Chloe begins to wake up.
“Chloe sweetheart, time to get up.” Says her mother, Jules, gently shaking her.
“Wassat?” Exclaims Chloe drowsily, sleep blurring her voice and pinning her down into the soft warmth. She opens her eyes and screws her mouth into an expression of distaste. “I’m havin’ a lovely dream, wotchoo wakin’ me for?”
Jules strokes hair from her daughter’s face, she has a curl that insists on invading the tiny cheek, and gets tangled in her long eyelashes. She looks so much like her father. “Mam, what your eyes all red for?” She demands, sitting up now.
“Nothing, sweetheart. Mam’s just tired that’s all.” Jules’ eyes fill slightly and she grabs hold of little Chloe and pulls her into a fierce hug. “Mammy loves you.” Then, as if pulling herself together, she asks, “So, were did you go last night?”
“Aw Mam! I went to loads of places last night, which ones do you want me to tell you about?”
“All of them, of course. It’s only Saturday, we only have to go to the shops later to get tea in, we’ve got all morning. Start at the start for me.”
“Cool!” Exclaims Chloe happily, and snuggles deeper down into the nest that her quilt has become. Her story starts right after Mammy had put her to bed at eight, Chloe’s dreams last all night and long into the morning. Sometimes they stay even after she wakes up. Sometimes they even follow her into school. She checks her school bag every morning before getting into the car, and before the Summer when Daddy was still here, she used to get him to check too. Goblins hiding in her bag wouldn’t be scared off if she looked at them, but Daddy was so big he was able to scare them away. That’s what she told him. Last night’s adventure was a grand old time, it started on a ship, a golden ship made from frozen sunbeams which were carved by giants with red beards who lived by the sea. Chloe had been scared of them at first, but she soon discovered that they were very friendly indeed.
One of them was called Brian Jenkins, and it was he who told her where to find a magical key that would unlock any lock in the world. This was great news to the tiny girl (who in her dreams wore a red cape like Superman, a crown like the Queen and ruby slippers that were sometimes blue because Chloe liked blue sometimes much more than red) as a few dreams ago she had found a chest like a pirate’s chest but she couldn’t open it. A witch called Griselda had put a spell on the lock so that nobody could lock it. Chloe was desperate to open this chest because,
“It must av ‘ad a brilliant thing in it, because nobody would put a spell on a chest with something boring in it. Isn’t that right Mam?”
“Makes perfect sense to me, love. What happened then?”
Armed with the magical key, which had a large sapphire set into it, Chloe went back to where she had hidden the chest and quickly turned the sparkling key in the lock. Inside were a pair of wings that enabled the wearer to really fly, and a tiny bottle of magic potion. Two drops on the top of your head made your hair grow four feet long, so you could have a haircut and if you didn’t like it you could grow it back in a second.
Chloe was delighted with these finds, and popped hem both into her spoils bag, a purple bag that she could carry over her shoulder, with two buttons and a zip that made it look like a face. Chloe had been so happy when she found the bag in her dreamland, that she had begged her mother to make the bag for hr in real life. It now hung on the back of her bedroom door, and contained a Brothers Grimm book, a photograph of a cloud (which was the first photograph Chloe had ever taken and even though she had been aiming for Daddy’s face the cloud that had appeared when the film came back was still pretty amazing), a drawing book and a packet of Crayola with no red.
Chloe’s dream then became quite scary, she had slipped the wings over her shoulders and was flapping about near a tall tree that had thousands of glittering butterflies dancing over it, when suddenly the sky turned dark and there was a screeching noise. She looked up and saw three demons flying towards her, two were holding knitting needles and one had a pair of scissors.
“And then I really did get scared ‘cos the scissors were really big. I called for you and Daddy but only you came see Mam. I don’t think Daddy can fly from where he is.” Jules pulls her daughter in for another big hug. Some days it gets so bad that she locks the doors and unplugs the phone, and the only person she can stand to see is Chloe. Chloe likes those days, she knows. They play hide and seek or make cakes; painted a mural once on the landing wall, all rainbows and exotic birds.
“You’re so brave, sweetheart. Help Mam be brave too, will you?” Asks Jules, pulling her close again.

This morning is made of rain and clouds; the dark grey sky has seeped into the house through the windows and dulled all the colours. Jules makes herself a quick cup of tea before going up to wake Chloe and find out where she has been. She smiles at the thought, nearly every morning for the last six years, one of them has gone up to ‘find out where Chloe has been’, it is as much a routine as washing the dishes or feeding the cats. Jules will have to do it alone from now on though. She breathes deeply, drains the last of her tea, and bounds up the stairs to wake her daughter.
In the messy bedroom, Chloe has adopted her usual sleeping position: a tangle of sheets and limbs, punctuated by snoring and lip smacking. Jules edges into the bed and curls around the warmth of her kitten-sized daughter. Chloe wakes up to her mother kissing her little ear, and when she starts to giggle they tickle each other until both are crying with laughter, tears like the rain outside only not grey, they are rainbow stained and filled with happy molecules.
Once they finish laughing, Jules asks,
“So where did you go last night, sweetheart?”
“Aw Mam! It was even better last night than ever before.”
“Go on then, start from the start.”
“Right…”
Brian Jenkins and his best friend Adrian played snap with Chloe for a while, but Adrian was too good and he won every game except one, and that was disqualified because Brian’s pet turtle ate one of the cards. Chloe then decided to go for a little wander down to the pink river that was full of cherryade, to see if she could find a hippo. Brian told her there were no hippos in the river but that he had been given a message to take her somewhere.
Up in the clouds was a door, Brian said, and Chloe had to go there. So he lifted her up onto his shoulder and pressed a button for the elevator, they climbed in and went zooming up into the sky. After a while, sure enough they came to a door made out of different coloured sky.
“And Mam you wouldn’t believe who was behind it!” Exclaims Chloe.
“Who? Tell me.” Asks her mother.
“It was Daddy, only he was well.” Jules breaks down; she’s been expecting this for a while. She has no idea how to explain.
“Aw Mam! He told me to tell you I saw him, and he said you would cry and he said I had to look after you. He said he liked my wings too.”
“He always said you had wings, babe.”

He Paints With Glamorous Glue

He knows I'd love to see him (as close as is allowed).
My name still conjures - they actually know me, they said: "You're just another views, you're just another who has maddening views
you want to said: "I know I do."
Skinny little thing, eyes and kiss him, bite into his skin.
Can’t wait until unwrapped, he looks like him, true, a tiny version wrapped in feed him and fuck him.
I’m trying not to get, I have lived in the arse of the world...
He happy (or as close as possible, as close as possible), deadly deeds, and a bad taste in the mouth.
The police person in the world “you're just another fool with radical turn it on its head by staying in bed!"
I drown in, and dripping with sin.
I want to kiss him Wednesday, I want in.
Supplies have been bought, and tubes in my duvet and my arms.
I’ll cook him food, too excited, this time.

Meemo

I love this picture of me, I think I was about 24:

Citalopram has no hormone

Most Selective Serotonin Reuptake of pressure inside me, scrub the scram and swipe giggles.

I’ve lost me like a hot shape of rapid eye movement it potentiates the anti-nociceptive effect of teeth. Gouging and tearing the picked at the bits that spit, and they ricochet. My head mutate and reproduce, hundred by hundred. Like my poor nails.

However, the selectivity contribute impair performance and minimal sedative properties, single influence on cardiovascular parameters. the serotonin (5-HT)-uptake. Tolerance to and gamma aminobutyric acid gore golden behind. Softer eyelashes the map pressed against of his teeth, and beneath.

Suppression and MAO inhibitors, citalopram of citalopram.

I’ve had saws, or the soft, easily bled skin incisors, I’ve been worrying those out though. I’ve tried every method. They teeth in my brain, constantly chewing main metabolites of citalopram ratios metabolites do not has combination not or dose study in significant treatment with citalopram.

Citalopram is the newer SSRIs, meticulous fingernails at my cheek, his blinking causing key against wet clay.
I remember the (REM) sleep is other SSRI's of commonly following administration instead ends of my edges left, I’ve won’t come rip, and I can’t around me, taunt me, to stop me from seeing.

Then, lower than those of citalopram. Cognitive (intellectual function) and psychomotor either alone or in a potent inhibitor of on noradrenaline (NA), dopamine (DA) from my inside and leave something of his body, but feel it smile at the memory that lingers suppresses REM-sleep and opioid receptors chisels.

These last few weeks, nails, exposing underneath. With the rough away. Using my bits, until they spit those pictures fuss . I wish I had the end there’d be nothing.

The end of the newer SSRIs. The end with alcohol.

In humans citalopram does human volunteers.

The Passenger

I am the passenger
And I ride and I ride
I ride through the city’s backside
I see the stars come out of the sky
Yeah, they’re bright in a hollow sky
You know it looks so good tonight
I am the passenger
I stay under glass
I look through my window so bright
I see the stars come out tonight
I see the bright and hollow sky
Over the city’s a rip in the sky
And everything looks good tonight...

Weekend

I’ve been off work ill today. I survived by not eating anything, and managed to lose 5 pounds in the process – so it’s not all bad.
Anyway, I was planning an outfit (in my head) of what to wear on Friday, and I suddenly thought: I can’t WAIT until Friday. Oh my goodness, I’m totally living for the weekend again. I’ve not been this excited to go out all the time since I was a teenager. It’s great. I’ve got a cool bunch of friends who are happy to go out and get wasted every weekend, and who I love spending time with. They all give good copy too (step forward James and Nina)!
After being temporarily heartbroken last weekend (I’ve mended since then), my plan for this weekend is to pull a 19 year old to see if I can, heh heh.
Suggested listening:

Gingerbread

As part of my fierce advertising campaign (advertising Andrew Craig Williams as a writer), I will be releasing a novella this autumn (or as soon as I've finished writing it anyway, I'm having terrible trouble with the ending - I'm not sure whether to make a happy ending or a horrible ending like real fairytales have). Releasing for free like you’d release an EP, with a launch party and everything. It’s called The Gingerbread Man, and it’s a gay re-imagining of the familiar fairytale. I was inspired not only by my love of fairytales, but by a short story written by Poppy Z. Brite in her collection of short stories Self-Made Man. Her story King of Cats (written with David Ferguson) is a gay version of a favourite fairytale of theirs – The Miller’s Son.

With this in mind, I rewrote The Gingerbread Man. Here is an extract:

Christian hardly noticed the dressing boys running after him like headless chickens, trying to get him to wear clothes they had chosen, each one vying for the Prince’s attention. For the first time, he actually stopped and looked at them; they were no different from him at that age, when he first started noticing Carl. For the first time Christian allowed himself the pleasure of having five young men at hand to do his bidding, he was sure they would do anything he wanted of them. He asked one of the boys to go to the kitchen to fetch him some tea, while he lay back on his day bed considering the possibilities. His mind wandered more than his eyes, as he gazed over at one particularly handsome boy named William. William glanced up and caught the Prince looking at him; he flushed red and dropped the tunics he was carrying. Christian sprang to his feet to help the young boy, who immediately dropped the tunics he had already gathered.
“Let me help you, William.” said Christian kindly.
“No need, sir,” he stammered in reply, “’t was my own fault.” Christian’s hand brushed William’s forearm as they both bent to pick up the remaining tunics. The dressing boy shuddered at the Prince’s touch, and looked fearfully into his dark eyes. Christian felt a sudden sickness at how he was behaving; he was no better than Carl - treating another person as a plaything for his own amusement. He took a deep breath and smiled warmly at William, who seemed to relax, and smiled back shyly at him.
“Thank you.” said the Prince sincerely - sure that William did not really know what he was thanking him for, and swept away a stray lock of curly blonde hair that had fallen into the boys’ eye, curling his fingers behind Williams’ ear. The boy Christian had sent to fetch tea returned laden with a tray of tea and hot water, and a delicate porcelain teacup and saucer.
“Right then!” he shouted, “Let’s get ready to go to the ball. You will all be my guests.” Christian smiled openly at the hubbub that broke out with his statement, and William dropped his tunics all over again.
“William,” he began, smiling again at how embarrassed the boy became when he spoke directly to him, “what is the time, my good man?”
“Um, nearly two of the clock, sir.” managed William quietly.
“Excellent!” exclaimed the Prince, “that means we have time for some tea, and I would like to talk to you.” The boys looked around at each other at a loss for words, each one staring at his companions as if for inspiration. Christian went to a cupboard set against the far wall, and drew out a green and gold tea set. “Come, I will serve tea myself,” said Christian, ignoring the protests of his servants, “Jack, Owen,” began the Prince, “I am in a wicked mood, lock the doors for me.”
“But, sir…” began Owen fearfully, “what if they come looking for us?”
“Then they shall have me to answer to. I ask that the doors be locked, and locked they shall be.” he laughed. Owen and Jack moved to the doors but stopped short when they heard a messenger stride purposefully up the corridor. Christian bounded over and turned the large, ornate key with a flourish - then held his finger to his lips and whispered,
“A silver piece to he who can keep the most silent.” the boys giggled at his request, but the Prince’s wicked mood was strangely infectious.
The door handles turned once, twice, then a stately knocking burst forth. William was bent double with silent laughter, and all the occupants of the lavish room had large grins on their faces. A voice called,
“Prince Christian?” then more urgently, “Prince Christian, are you there? Your father desires to speak with you.” a few seconds of silence, then they heard the footsteps fall away out of hearing. The room fairly exploded with giggles, and Christian was delighted. He let out a great huff of air, and sat down to make the tea.
Christian had always been told never to speak to the servants unless he needed assistance, or had a message to be sent to another part of the castle. Speaking with these boys was refreshing and interesting, a pastime he wished he had discovered a long time ago. He learned of Owen’s fear of swimming, and how his mother had tried to teach him to swim in the lake away to the North of the castle; how Jack had kissed Miriam the milkmaid twice in the orchard, and was hoping to make it a third tonight. He was told how Caleb loved nothing more than a handful of coloured chalk, and an empty wall as a canvas; how Dan could sing like a bird and held concerts every Friday in the servant’s quarters. He was thrilled to hear all of this, but saddened that William did not join in.
“William,” asked the Prince, turning towards the reddening boy, “you have not told us a tale yet.”
“I don’t think I’d like to, sir.” he stuttered, furrowing his eyebrows at the jeers from his friends.
“But William, if you are to be a dinner guest of mine, I should at least know something about you. How old are you?”
“Sixteen, sir.” he said, raising his eyebrows slightly.
“Wil, that’s a lie,” hissed Jack; William’s face glowed even harder. “He’s my cousin, sir, and he’s fourteen.”
“Please don’t be angry, sir. I has to work, I has to.” began William pleadingly.
“William, your secret is safe with me,” said the Prince, to Williams’ obvious relief. He leaned into Williams’ ear and said, “all of them.” The boy’s face fell, but Christian winked hugely at him, and he smiled limply.
Barely an hour had passed before the boys got agitated and worried that they would receive tellings off, so Christian allowed them to finish their work before they got ready to come to the ball with him.
“It will be a sport, I shall introduce you as a troop of artistes.”
“But sir, what will we wear? These clothes are not fit for a ball, sir.” began Caleb.
“Caleb, my dear boy, I have a wardrobe full to bursting with fine clothes. You are not that much smaller then me. Let’s go and try them on.” the Prince looped his arm into Caleb’s and dragged him to the wardrobe. He flung the doors wide and heard the boys gasp at the variety of colours and fabrics inside, “Help yourselves, lads, and you may keep whatever you choose, Mother always buys too many garments.” at a look of shock on their faces, he continued, “As a thank you, for this afternoon, I have enjoyed your company and wish you all well. Come, let’s make haste so we may enjoy the ball tonight.”
The boys fairly attacked the pretty silks and velvets, each new tunic or shirt made them coo in awe. After much frantic scrabbling, the boys all had their outfits ready. Jack in a pale green suit, Caleb in a wine coloured robe and breeches, Dan in the most royal blue garb they could find, Owen had chosen plush orange attire with a red cape and boots, William stood quietly with his black suit over his shoulder. Christian smiled at them and hurried them out of the rooms back to get ready for the coming festivities.

Wig in a Box

I can't get this song out of my head; and it makes me feel better to boot. Win-win situation!

"I put on some make-up
turn up the eight-track
I'm pulling the wig down from the shelf
Suddenly I'm this punk rock star
of stage and screen
and I ain't never
I'm never turning back"

Hysterical anagram site

I just asked this site a question, and the answer was:

"Boyishly maimed weekly idiot."

I laughed so hard I think a bit of wee came out!

The question was to do with pulling boys (blush).


sternestmeanings.com

James just said...

...bro's before ho's.

What a gent.

Hobart Paving

And baby, (don't forget to catch me.)
Don't forget to catch me, (don't forget to catch me)
Don't forget to catch me, (don't forget to catch me)
Don't forget to catch me. (don't forget to catch me)
Oh no, no sugar tonight, (don't forget to catch me)
Oh no, no sugar tonight, (don't forget to catch me)
No no, no sugar tonight, (don't forget to catch me)
Don't forget to catch me...

Lonnie (cut up)

Eyes staring not caring
smoking in it's time to smile again. It’s happening all over again,
could be happening, cigarettes and fast food.
Taxi not from the other.
It's happening all over again.
Blue the rain, paid for again.
Thanks, I'm listening.
You said, believe me,
but leave me over again,
but it's home from home.

Window

I’m watching the clouds moving;
reflected in the open windows of the house across the road,
TV screens showing white noise.
A window opens and scatters the cotton wool
revealing blue like the colour of his eyes.

Boy Anagram (update)

Velvety, gladsome weirdo detracts.

(The truth in anagrams is a bit scary).

Boy anagram

A Cad Remodelled Gritty Vows

Dacw Mam yn dwad

My Mamgu used to sing this to me when I was a dwt, and because we have always called her 'Mam', I thought the song was about her coming over the stile on Garnswllt mountain where her and my Datcu used to live on a farm called Graig Fawr. Even my nephews (aged 12 and 14) call her 'Mam Graig Fawr' - the other one is called 'Mam Llanelli' for obvious reasons, or 'Bonkers Mam'. Also obvious.

Dacw Mam yn dwad ar ben y gamfa wen
Rhywbeth yn ei ffedog a phiser ar ei phen
Y fuwch yn y beudy yn brefu am y llo
A’r llo’r ochr arall yn chwarae jim cro
Jim cro crystyn one two four
A’r mochyn bach yn eistedd mor ddel ar y stôl

Ethan Hawke makes me tingle

I used to have a huge crush on skinny little Ethan, and on the husband list he's defo in the top ten. I flicked through the tv channels earlier tonight and watched ten minutes of Gattaca, and I remembered someone I'd not thought about for a long time.
When I was in sixth form, there was a boy a year or two younger than me who bore a striking resemblance to Ethan Hawke, and I had a bit of a crush on him. My friend Nerys pulled him one night, and I was gutted (blush).
So anyway, I remembered his name earlier when Gattaca was on, so I facebooked him... Man Alive! He's still really beautiful, and now married and has two kids. But not with Nerys.

Hello world

My optimism has come back, all thanks to a haircut and a clean shave. I've even started playing my ukulele every day again. There's something about playing old Leadbelly songs on uke that can't help but plaster a big smile across my chops.
All together now... tell me where did you sleep last night?

Character questionnaire

I found this questionnaire online, to help you get to know the characters you write about. I’ve answered this one for my favourite character Geraint.

• What is your character’s name? Does the character have a nickname?
His name is Geraint Hopkins. Lots of people just call him ‘Hopkins’, or ‘Hoppers’.

• What is your character’s hair colour? Eye colour?
Brown hair and brown eyes.

• What kind of distinguishing facial features does your character have?
His nose is quite big.

• Does your character have a birthmark? Where is it? What about scars? How did he get them?
Her has a hernia scar, and has cut scars on his wrist.

• Who are your character’s friends and family? Who does he surround himself with? Who are the people your character is closest to? Who does he wish he were closest to?
His two best friends are Nathalie and Rosie, but Rosie has moved to Australia. He doesn’t really get on with his parents, who are separated. But he is quite close to his older brother who lives away with his wife and kids.

• Where was your character born? Where has he lived since then? Where does he call home?
He is from Llanelli originally, but now lives in Cardiff.

• Where does your character go when he’s angry?
Shouts. He is very loud.

• What is his biggest fear? Who has he told this to? Who would he never tell this to? Why?
Dying alone. His best friends know this but that’s all. He should never tell this to his boyfriends as when he does they always leave him.

• Does he have a secret?
He fancies a straight boy named Emyr that he went to school with!

• What makes your character laugh out loud?
Talking rubbish with his mates, they are like his family and he needs them to survive. Possible the relationship he has with them is too cloying. His friend Nathalie moved to Cardiff to be with him.

• When has your character been in love? Had a broken heart?
He has been in love only once, but had his heart broken many times.