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.
I cannot imagine you as Felicia,” he said. “You’re Cleo.” “Are you always in the habit of redefining your female companions?” “If you must know, it’s your hair. Your hair is far more Cleo than Felicia.” She laughed. “Now you’re being silly.” “Sorry it’s a little bugbear of mine,” he said. “Underneath it all, however, …
“I do not understand why, when I ask for grilled lobster in a restaurant, I’m never served a cooked telephone.” Salvador Dali “Once in a restaurant, I asked for grilled cuttlefish and was served a shuttlecock.” Maude Diego, who I haven’t seen except on Facebook since we were in our twenties, introduced me to the …
He saw her through the crowd. How unusually attractive, he thought, alone but confident, not quite part of the scene, but detached, perhaps amused by it all. They spoke briefly. She smiled at him and they wandered outside. “What do you do?” “I am a writer.” “That is absurd but romantic nonetheless. I don’t know …
Kateryna was working in the hospitality tent during the European championships of twenty twelve when she learned Shevshenko, the talisman of the national team, was on his way. All the hospitality girls were keen to shake Shevshenko by the hand or get him to sign autographs. But Shevshenko moved briskly along the line until he …
Mary had been quite specific: if you are going to come to the party, you need to bring a boy. Preferably with a peacock feather. “What does she mean a peacock feather?” said Em, “I can’t stand strutting types.” “Don’ be silly, M. I don’t think that’s what she meant.” “What did she mean then?” …
Scobie, who had come to Valletta one summer to write a novel and ended up staying on as tutor to the feral children of rich Maltese, had gone down to the port to check out the scene and ended up in a bar frequented by sailors. For the most part he enjoyed their company. Even …
The civil rights lawyer Diego Martino is often thought of as a dynamic and charismatic figure. He is always busy and pressed for time. “Time waits for no one,” he says. “One must not waste a moment of the day.” And yet Diego has a secret that perhaps only a handful of his closest friends …
“It was a perfect marriage. He didn’t want to. And she couldn’t.” Spike Milligan “It was an imperfect perfect marriage. Neither were able to.” Mabel “Families! Who needs Families?” – When Mabel has glass in hand; some of it will inevitably spill on the table cloth. – “Surely, you know where you are going in …
The wart-faced banker, Marcus Fulvius was a notorious lecher. One day, during their regular sweat in the laconicum, his friend, Ottavius noted his gloomy disposition. “Cheer up, old boy,” he said. “Soon it will be the seventeenth”. Fulvius, however, was not looking forward to the saturnalia. “It will be the usual miserable fest,” he declared. …
The two of them sat side by side in the brasserie, comfortable but not with long conversation. It was an old ritual and one which they had both learned to tolerate. Francoise was normally a flamboyant dresser, but for her father she put on a plain dress and held back on the makeup. Guillaume was …