giorge thomas

Right. Great news for fiction-lovers out there…

My new book, 45 Notes on London, will be available for download real soon!

Details of the ebook and availability will arrive real soon, but if you want to be the first to know, make sure you subscribe below to be emailed first with any news!

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Hi Folks! So much is about to happen here on and I am super, super excited!

I’ve been a little busy worker bee preparing everything and I hope all of you will be along for the ride.

It’s going to be a month of excitement stretching right through to the new year so if you haven’t all ready, make sure you subscribe to my blog so you’re the first to know.

For those of you who have been with me from the beginning (you know who you are) I’m so glad to have you along on this journey. I know what’s coming up is something you’ve wanted for a long time.

So spread the love my friends, and I’ll see you back here real soon with me news. Hopefully soon. I’ve actually got a few things to finish up and am off to the cricket right now which takes an entire day so looks like I’ll be working into the night again.

Love you all!!

You may be the
bees knees.
Swan about with all
your swoons
display them brightly
by the moon
to disappear will be too soon.

You have a head
that’s full of ego
bright, bearded, flowered fellow
can you see I’m dressed in yellow?
I should have just worn red
that’s the colour of our blood;

Brighten your mood
with others about
spread them ‘round,
they are on show
pretty girls
that you’ll always know
pick which one you want to grow.

She will be your potted flower
water and tend to her greatest power
yet should weeds come along
and ruin her flower…
there will be many more
to choose, but they are
the ones that you will lose.

© giorge thomas



Taken from ‘The Vase, Reconstructed’ by giorge thomas. Purchase here.



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Every now and then
I get this ridiculous notion
That I could be some kind of
Artistic genius, papering the walls
Of our home with my mastery.

So I put pen to paper
Or brush to canvas
Swirling colours of preference
Which are always blue
(I seem to neglect all other colours on the spectrum)
Until an inventoriable
Mess is created, looking more
Like a toddler’s markings
Than that of a middle aged woman.
I stare at my design, unable to fathom
How it is that a masterpiece
Of abstract is so difficult
To create
Until I realise, with some regret,
That I was never meant to be
An artist.


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The roads are empty, a low mist is hanging over the city and the hoarding tourists are still at breakfast. This is the London I love. ​



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Francesca. That was the name of the girl who served us at a well known car rental outlet yesterday and she’s restored our faith in the industry. 

I’m not going to deny that I probably got on her good side by mentioning her makeup application. There’s no doubt she’s of the contouring generation, probably spending hours honing her skills by watching tutorials on YouTube. Yet a pretty face and perfectly highlighted cheeks does not necessarily mean you’re going to have a pleasant personality, or be good in a customer service role. Thankfully, Francesca was both. 

Not sure what it is about the car rental industry, but we don’t seem to have much luck when it comes to renting cars for our holiday. Every year we arrive for holiday in the Britain, our first port of call is always the rent-a-car branch. We’re well traversed, and as repeat customers, you’d think it would be a satisfying exchange. That it would be pleasant. That customer service would be on-form to ensure the business gets another five hundred quid from us next year. 

No such luck. We’re always served by the same type – the kind of blokes you usually find in industries where vehicles are involved. Though while car dealership salesman have a certain slickness about them, their rental counterparts are severely lacking anything which can be defined as slick. Apart from their hair, of course. 

In a massive generalisation, I often find that the ‘gentlemen’ working in such establishments have oiled, combed-back hair, trousers slung unattractively at the hips and which are always two sizes too big, baggie white shirts which are un-ironed and have long ago lost their whiteness, and several big fat gold rings. Men who work in car rental dealerships rarely have less than three rings on their fingers. They are the ones who buy those gaudy medallion type yokes from the pawn brokers. More often than not, they’ll have a thick gold chain to match. The resulting look is one of a wannabe gangster. But then, they are a bunch of gangsters. 

Case in point, imagine a customer ringing the call centre of a rent-car organisation (because the website is conveniently down), getting a quote and reference number for a vehicle in a particular category, and then turning up to the storefront and not have them honour that price. And giving the old ‘computer says no’ routine as reason. 

As a customer, you do everything right. You ring the branch half an hour before arriving and they say, yes, yes, we have that particular vehicle in stock but when you arrive, the story has changed. ‘What? That car? No, we’ve never had that in stock. You spoke to Mark? Mark who? No Mark had ever worked here.’ 

Lying bastards. 

We have also had an instance when we were given a car with only one working cylinder. Something you don’t notice when driving around town (apart from exclaiming ‘this car is shit’ while trying to get up to speed) yet was apparent when you find yourself being overtaken by a tractor on a B road. 

Once, they tried to charge us the excess for a punctured tyre. A punctured tyre! Is ridiculous because you can never claim tyres on insurance anyway. Because of wear and tear. But in rent-a-car circles, they can seemingly get away with it. The whole excess thing is a wrought anyway. The Daily Mail did a story on this yesterday. And yes, we are all being fleeced. 

Renting a car is now the single most stressful element of travel. And it just shouldn’t be like that. If this industry wants to redeem itself (and to be honest, I don’t think they do) then they should start employing more people like Francesca, and less of the wannabe gangsters. That might be the answer. In an industry dominated by men, they have failed miserably. Maybe it’s time to give the girls a go. 


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So last night I got into bed, hoping an episode of Location, Location, Location will prove to be just the right tonic for sleep to set in.

(And yes, I am well aware of the link between device activity and insomnia. Just given me a break; I’m on holiday).
The usual bed routine is mad enough. OCD sorting of pillows. Adjustment of duvet and sheet. Making sure the latter is tucked so tight my squirmy legs have no chance of moving through the night. A slather of lip balm. The preventative blowing of the nose.

All checked off. All good. But then. The horrors. Somehow, and I don’t know how, the duvet had managed to fold itself under the cover. A big fold of duvet resulting in a useless flap of duvet cover.

Yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking: what’s the issue here? Sort the problem out and get back to The Kirsty and Phil Flirt Fest (because, isn’t that the only reason we all watch the show? The whole will-they-won’t they scenario? Although, if truth be told, the main reason I watch the show to get a glimpse of Kirsty’s aquamarine beauty. I love that ring. I want to marry it. Satisfaction in life will not truly happen until I own a sparkler like that. But am getting off topic…)

The issue of mushed-up duvet would not be an issue to those whose brain has a perfectly symmetrical chemical balance. Not mine. I imagine my brain as a set of old fashioned brass scales, and whatever my brain lacks, or has too much of, causes the scales to tip out of balance with the type of regularity which should o my apply to bowel movements. Or eating. The odds are definitely not in my favour.

So the shrieking high-pitched squealing escapes my mouth, alerting Mr Thomas to the fact that

a) our cat has again decided I am the enemy, and has therefore begun to attack me with growls, hisses, bites and taps to the ankle with her astonishingly strong paws

b) there is a spider within eyesight and while, in public, I act bravely in such situations and am able to cup said spider in a glass with ease, in private I become a hysterical mess.

c) there is a hair where hair shouldn’t be: on my shirt, on the floor, in the bed, or in other places I will not mention and deny at all costs


d) I am having a complete and utter breakdown of high proportions over something completely inconsequential

Ding ding ding! D is the winner, today, folks.

So Mr Thomas came in and tried his best to keep the smiling to a minimal as I explained in a pitch that was affecting every dog in the neighbourhood what the problem was.

‘The duvet… is… not… it’s folded… twisted… I can’t… it’s not…’

Somehow (and it might be due to our twelve year relationship) Mr Thomas was able to understand my predicament.

In that annoying long-armed way of his, Mr Thomas was able to flick the duvet until it righted itself; the corner of the duvet and its cover aligning to a no-ga perfection. And that was it. Problem solved. Anxiety subsided.

I know, of course, that in any other given moment I would not have been flustered by a mangled duvet, but my anxiety is already at high levels. It always is before a trip. The thought of having to pack four weeks of my life into a suitcase is positively petrifying. And while I am the queen of the To Do List, and there is nothing more satisfying than checking something off a list (I know I’m not the only one who understood Monica’s ‘check!’ Obsession in that episode of Friends: ‘The one in Barbados Part One‘) yet my issue is, and always will be: what if I don’t remember to write something into he list?

The worst thing that can happen? I forget something and have to buy it while on holiday. A very rational thought, but it can be terribly difficult to be rational when one is a sufferer from anxiety.

Like, for example, being kept up at night at the thought of having to complete every item on my To Do list. Which would take about an hour in reality and said To Do list is written in my Midori Traveler’s Notebook which I am beyond excited at being able to use on actual travels. Such irrational thoughts! And yet, they can not be abated.

The decision may have to be made to take the anti-anxiety tablets reserved for actual plane flight in the days prior, just to calm the nerves. Would prevent another duvet-related calamity, that’s for sure.

I may just do that. There’s not much else I can do about it. I will always be a sufferer of anxiety. It is what it is.

Whatever it may be. You might be interested in my poetry, which can be at times disastrously dark, but always poignantly human. You may be interested in my thoughts. My random seizing on small moments which may seem insignificant, and probably are, yet will be noted all the same.

You may have no interest at all. Which is fine. It is what it is. But what will be will be, and my words will continue to flourish. Sometimes here, sometimes in my mind, sometimes in print.

Old friends, I welcome you back. New friends, I look forward to meeting you. Just as much as I look froward to the journey.

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