This is like a mind palace. Not the memory technique, why should that thing get all the glory. It’s a place for me to put all the thought bits I want to show people. I like to think that’s it. No real motive, just hoping to share.

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Twitter and Instagram. These are very boring at the moment. Please don’t judge me (until I’ve posted something then by all means).

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Now if you’re still hanging around I’m going to tell you a story.

Imagine you’re here in the bungalow with me. It’s steamy hot outside, but there’s a cool breeze in here. You can see strange mementos on my shelves. Books as well, some you recognise, some with weird symbols on their spines and odd colours for their dust jackets. It’s like an antiques emporium, you think. We’re sitting on some nice easy chairs, maybe old rattan with cushions, and coffee is boiling on the stove in a huge pot, well stained.

You’ve just walked in because the door was open and it seemed somehow like that kinda place. In fact, now you’re wondering, ‘what am I doing here?’. You were staring out of the back windows at the dust when I came out of a room and sat you down.

“I’m a wytch,” I say, “do you want some coffee? Just made it fresh.”

“A witch like with the pointy hats?”

“No, a wytch.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“No, witches live in Hollywood.”

“Don’t you…I mean sort of nearby…”

“Yeah but I do that as a joke, okay,” I’m taking the coffee off the stove.

So what do you do, cackle and curse people?

I’m pouring coffee, “I mean kinda, but again not because witch, just because…it’s fun. It is fun isn’t it? Like you’ve cursed a politician and laughed sometime in your life for sure. …Want some coffee?”

Too hot for coffee. You mean cursed like said ‘fuck off’ to, right?

“Yeah. That’s all I do. The whole thing of evil energies striking someone down if you curse them with the right formula, that’s not really my deal. No-one pays enough attention to me for that. You want to see that, go on Twitter.”

“Fair enough. Got any beer?”

“Oh sure.” I go over to the fridge and pull out a cold Staropramen, pop the cap with something on my belt and hand it you.

“Cheers. So…apart from cackling and cursing…?”

“Oh nothing inspiring really. I mostly just talk with whoever comes in here. …Hey, wanna know how I became a wytch?”

“Uh…I guess, sure.”

“Okay. Some time ago, I was born from a tree and the earth of a land called Albion. I was baptised there in the streams of the Isle of Avalon, where I touched the belly of the world, the omphalos stone, and I became Merlin.

“I lived in Albion, surviving and thriving as the land was ravaged by time and labour.

“Then at the height of its stress a wytch, who loved the land, drew it away from its own earth, to show what it was losing. But the wytch could not hold the spell long enough, and Albion broke, and died, and drove her spell into me as it died.

“Now I am the wytch, warlock, sorcerer, shaman. A broken land, a forgotten wytch, and Merlin.”

You’re pretty weird, you know. I think it’s cool though.

“I hope so. You shouldn’t be hanging round here otherwise.”