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Suzi Quaif


Hello and Welcome,

“Those of us who had a perfectly happy childhood should be able to sue for deprivation of literary royalties.” ~Chris Patten

Happiness is of course entirely subjective and perfection is a well known myth (thank goodness, or I really have run out of excuses).

I was born a coal miners daughter in the corner of the living room of a rented NCB house on top of a hill in a Nottinghamshire market town not so far from the remains of Sherwood Forest in September 1959, the year Jimi Hendrix bought his first guitar, Barbie was released to introduce little girls to the wonders of consumerism and Fidel Castro invaded Panama.

I was one of those irritatingly introverted kids, happier buried in a book letting my imagination run feral or trying to make papier mache ballet shoes in the unfaltering belief that it would qualify me as a ballerina, than being socially adept. Life beyond that has been a whirl of varied and numerous ‘Lemony Snickets’ (unfortunate events to non movie buffs). I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t get here without an appreciation of the funny side of life and having Yorkshire blood in my veins has helped (my grandfather was a one legged cobbler from Sheffield). Not surprisingly perhaps, I write about people and the endlessly glorious, often wonderfully dark edged  facets of life, occasionally drifting into the fantasy world that sustained me as a child.

I hope you enjoy your time here. To me writing, like life, is an adventure that I haven’t stopped exploring and should be experienced without limitations. Some of the things you will read here date back to when I first started writing two decades ago, some of them are new and all points inbetween.

Like any writer, I welcome feedback and the opportunity to improve my craft. Even if perfection is a myth

To add a comment on a piece just click on ‘ Thoughts ?’ at the bottom of the last page.

I look forward to hearing from you








Whats new  !!

What Ho ! Well it seems that summer has definitely gone for another year, but it will come back. It always does. 

Here in dear old Blighty the trees have been turned into showers of gold and russet leaves. Wind whipped rain falls from steely skies and darkness falls before you’ve settled down in front of an evenings TV. At this time of year nightfall always brings with it the imagined smell of bonfires stirring up memories of my childhood. Thoughts of burning human effigies and setting off explosives in the garden. Ah, the innocence of youth.

Oh well. Age has it’s compensations. I can do whatever I please and say whatever I think and blame it on early onset dementia should the need arise.

And with that thought in mind my current batch of offerings include my thoughts on Ireland. Ever since my first visit my affection for the place and its people has been tugging on my literary impulses. But for many a half-baked reason I chose to wait until a second visit to that fair land. 

‘Isle Land’ and ‘Ireland – Where The People Wave At Strangers’ are the result of all that prevarication.

There will be more. There are plans being kneaded and put in the oven to rise.

Watch this space




Dark Side of the Moon

Home Counties

Isle Land







Short Stories

One Lodger Too Many







Ireland – Where The People Wave At Strangers