A new venture, in which imaginary predicaments receive advice, solicited and unsolicited, from women of mythology and dubious historical veracity.


Look, you.


We’ve got it sorted. We’ve been doing this for years. Welcome to the vale of tears, yes, certainly, draw up a stool and weep.

You wouldn’t be the first.


But we’ve got you. From your  sharp indrawn breath coming in to the post-death deflation of your lungs, you’re over our knee, you’re our concern.


Not merciful, we might not give you what you like.

You aren’t a God, you’ve got no bartering power.

But dry your eyes regardless, put your best foot forward and smile, for the love of all that is holy.


We won’t let you down. Won’t cut the cord until you’ve had your fill, won’t send you more than you can cope with, won’t upend the universe before your time.


And however many good seeing-tos you get, however many phonecalls in the night that rip your world to bits, however many traffic jams and stubbed toes and however many weddings you’re invited to or host, remember us.


We’re over your shoulder. We’ve got our eye on the horizon. We’ve already seen your ghost.


Much love – live now! – our blades can’t wait.



The Fates