Home of The Naughty Stories Series
Born in Poole, Dorset, in 1965, Sedley Proctor grew up in London and was educated in Winchester and Nottingham. In the 1990s, he worked in fringe theatre and was involved in productions of Macbeth and Bertolt Brecht’s In the Jungle of Cities. His own play, Salt Lake Psycho about the notorious murderer, Gary Gilmore was put on at the now defunct Man in the Moon theatre in London, Chelsea. From the mid-nineties until 2013 he lived and worked as a teacher and translator in Southern Italy. In Italy he continued to experiment with his writing, devising an invented dialect, writing a blog satirizing the international politics of the early 2000s, collaborating on a screenplay with French writer, Claude Albanese, and performing his poetry in front of bemused locals and amused ex-pats. Apart from his own books, he writes under the aliases F. M. Frites and M. T. Sands.
The impresario, Tony di Curtis was sitting in his office with a cigar in his hand when he turned to Katarina and anyone else who cared to listen to him (since the door was half open and an act was pacing outside) trumpeting his desire to learn English from a real Englishman. “By the way,” …
Sario was the eternal student; at thirty-five he still lived at home. Officially he was at work on his thesis which was rather grandly entitled “Upon Nationalization and the post-war Italian economy” but, if truth were known, he wasn’t doing anything very much except hanging out with Gavin. When Gavin went to the Maltese, Dario …
There is no bombast, no similes, flowers, digressions, or unnecessary descriptions. Everything tends towards catastrophe. Castle of Otranto, H. Walpole “Here in the south, as I am sure you know,” said the priest, who was a little, pink-faced gnome of a man with thick-rimmed glasses, “we have an expression: Mamma li turchi! One tells it …
The school used to give us a cheque, every month, to cash in the Banca Commerciale. By the end of the month I was always a bit short of cash. Although I kept something back in an envelope that slotted into the upright desk in my room (I trusted Katarina and Amelia implicitly), that month …
I can never really relax beforehand; I am always looking round for something to do, even if I will invariably end up winging it; when my tax card came in the post that morning, I thought I had found the perfect conversation piece. “It’s been the running joke of my life here,” I said at …
Sabi had been away on business in the north. When she got to Raff’s place, he was out, so she phoned him on his mobile. “Where are you, amore?” “At the Poly. – Where are you?” “Sitting on your bed.” “With or without your undies?” “Porco, when are you coming home?” Sabi hung up. As …
Like most young professionals, Roberta owned a motorino. If there was nothing special or flash about it, it was the sort of little motorbike that could get you from A to B. Though she did not have much affection for it, she was attached to it for practical reasons and always made a point of …
I was in the middle of a translation; and, as it was a particularly tricky one, my brain was starting to fog with quibbles, so I stepped out onto the balcony and stretched. From my balcony, I should point out, if one looked left, one could make out the blue of the sea. It was …
Leaning against the wall of the old university building, Daniel took a joint from the pocket of his wide pants. Cofi went wide-eyed: “You smoking that here?” Even though it was broad daylight and people were milling about, Daniel had no compulsion about lighting the joint. Cofi kept looking up and down the street to …
If Katarina and Amelia had always felt rather sorry for Guisi, they were in two minds about inviting her to their party. “What’s wrong with Guisi?” asked Patrick. “Nothing,” said Amelia. “She’s a little dull. That’s all.” “She’s not dull,” said Katarina, “she is spectacularly boring.” “You mean she’s a little dyed in the wool?” …