Mark Wagstaff, writer and author

After Work - read more


We went down the street in silence, walking close to each other, holding hands in a modest way, like friends. I didn’t care where we were going; I thought perhaps we could walk all the way home, holding hands. We took turnings, left or right, by unspoken agreement, filtering into the back streets, dark and quiet and safe. We found a small playground, a chilly place after the children had gone and Claire swung on the screeching gate. “I knew it wouldn’t be locked.” Like ghosts of our childhood selves we drifted across the red tarmac to sit on the swings. Time lost its false meaning. There was nobody else in the world.