by Katie McCullough

Rosie traced the drooping side of the icing that threatened to dangle and break off, she rescued it from certain death but ultimately killed it in an instant as she slurped it off her finger. She was making fairy cakes with her son just as her mother had done with her and they were piping the vivid colours onto each cake staring intently. Rosie thought of two things; her mother would be delighted at Oliver’s artistic flair that he’d inherited from his father and that she ought to clean up the living room because she hated an untidy house. She kissed Oliver through his thick blonde hair, washed her hands and left him creating patterns as she walked off to make a start on the other decorations. Her mind drifted to memories past: of grazing knees, first teeth, quick fumbles under woollen blankets, cold winds whilst camping, hot whiskey breath, rapeseed bunches, the long walks home and tears all of which sprang from hanging the "Welcome Home" banner. The last pin was pushed and the door opened bringing with it the jumping dog, weather-beaten Gregory wheeling mother in and from the other direction came Oliver covered head to toe in green icing not wanting to miss anything and making us all laugh.


Katie McCullough is a screenwriter and playwright whose tools of choice are her hands and anything to write with (as well as her mouth to talk to people). She's a graduate of Bournemouth Media School and The Royal Court, London, and has had several readings at the ICA and Theatre Royal, Stratford East. Her website is here.