Ode to the Sherbet Lemon

The humble sherbet lemon. I’m not sure there are many better sweets out there.

You’ve got that lovely, long-lasting hard outer shell. Then, just as you settle into that flavour, the shell thins or cracks, and you hit that zesty sherbet fizz. It’s an instant shift from calm to chaos, and it keeps your taste buds interested.

That reaction, when the fizz hits your tongue, feels like a tiny party going off in your mouth.

They’re never too sweet, which makes them dangerously moreish. Worth keeping in mind they’re around 20–25 kcal each.

Per sweet:

• Calories: 20–25 kcal
• Carbohydrates: 5–6g
• Sugars: 4–5g
• Fat: 0g
• Protein: 0g

They also work brilliantly as a palate cleanser, and you’ve got the citrus base to thank for that.

There’s something genuinely interesting about them. Proper nostalgic too. I spent plenty of time in sweet shops in the 70s, and these always stood out.

I’m struggling to think of a better sweet. I was fond of a Fizz Bomb back in the day… but that’s one for another post.

 

The Doll at Platform Five (Mild Horror)

You get used to seeing the same things on the morning train. Same faces, same conversations, same bloke spilling coffee on his tie before we’ve even left the platform. But that morning, something different caught my eye, and my nose.

There was this faint smell in the carriage, like smoke, or maybe burnt dust off a radiator. It was difficult to place. It wasn’t like the typical smoke you get from a fire. It just seemed unusual. Nobody else seemed to notice. A woman across from me was laughing into her phone, and the fella next to her was hammering his keyboard like it owed him money.

I sniffed again. It was there, all right. Acrid, but oddly old, not the clean, chemical kind of smoke you get nowadays. Something heavier, like coal or charred cloth. Then, just as quick as it came, it was gone.

I couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, and no-one else seemed concerned, so I just put it down to one of those things.

As the train slowed into the station, I glanced past my reflection and up at the big glass hotel that sits just beyond the tracks. In one of the second-floor windows stood what looked like a child-sized doll. Pale face, expressionless, perhaps a little sad. It was dressed in old-fashioned clothes, Victorian, I guessed. Its head was forward, but looking over me and the carriage I was in. It seemed to be looking out across the city.

It was the sort of doll that definitely belonged in a museum, not a hotel. It was so out of place, but I couldn’t stop staring. I couldn’t help wondering why someone would take something like that to a hotel. By the time the train stopped and I stepped onto the platform, I looked up again. The doll was gone.

Next morning, there it was again. Same window, same doll, motionless. Nobody else seemed to notice. Too busy scrolling through newsfeeds and emails to look out of the window.

Then suddenly something inside me dipped, like stepping off a kerb you didn’t see. My pulse thudded in my ears, and there was that whiff of smoke again, curling at the back of my throat, dry and unpleasant.

It stuck in my head all morning. Over lunch, I started poking about online. The hotel’s website was all brick, glass, and chrome, all “boutique luxury” and “city views”. I wanted to see what had stood there before. A few clicks later, on one of those old map archives, I found it. The Slate Wharfe Workhouse, right by the old cut of the Wharfe, just south of the railway lines.

A miserable place, by the sounds of it. I found a grainy photograph. It looked miserable too. Soot-blackened brick, barred windows, smokestacks in the distance. Then I came across a snippet from a 1908 newspaper: “Fire at Slate Wharfe Workhouse. Many Saved by Workhouse Labourer.”

The article was short. They thought the blaze started in the laundry. Most of the children were dragged out by a labourer who went back inside again and again until the roof came down. The report said he’d tried to reach the last child, a girl seen trapped at an upstairs window, banging at the barred window as the flames took hold. Her body was never recovered.

That night, I dreamed of heat and smoke, and child’s hands pressing at the windows.

Next morning, I made sure to sit by the window in the carriage again. As we slowed past the hotel, there she was again, the doll, staring out. I lifted my phone and took a picture. When I looked at it later, I felt something cold tighten in my chest.

The doll was there, yes… but behind it, faint in the reflection of the glass, was the outline of a man. His face was partly lost in the glare, yet the shape of it, the hair, the eyes, the jaw, it looked horribly familiar.

It looked like me.

I don’t know what to make of it. But sometimes, when the train brakes before the platform and the air smells faintly of hot metal, I catch that old taste of smoke in my mouth… and once, I swear, I coughed up a fleck of soot.

And this morning, as I sat there trying not to look at the window, my phone buzzed with a new photo, no message, no sender.

It was my photo of the doll.

Only this time, its head had turned… and it was looking straight at me.

An original short story by Andrew Scaife
© Andrew Scaife, 2026. All rights reserved. 

The End of the Invisible Audience

For years, almost 35 years, every time I sat down to write, I wasn't alone. The room was crowded with invisible people: the boss who was vertually dictating what I should write, the client who might get offended with the wrong word or phrase, the prospect I didn't want to scare off, and the Google (and all the social platforms) algorithm that demanded its pound of flesh in optimised keywords and the right hashtags.

I spent more time thinking about the consequences of virtually every single word and sentence than the point of writing it sometimes. Everything had to be sanitised, perfectly structured, and professional to a fault. It was usually writing by committee, even when the committee was just in my head.

Fuck that.

One of the biggest realisations in moving to this "Anti-Social" setup is how much energy I was wasting on people who don't actually exist. This isn't a marketing asset anymore. It’s not a lead-generation tool. It’s just a digital garden. It's me saying what I want to say, in the way I want to say it.

Stripping away the structured copy, certain posts or content having to be a particular length, the SEO, the Meta tags, thinking about imagery and the copywriters templates has given me something I’d forgotten I needed: the freedom to just write what I want. If a post is too short, fine. If it’s too blunt, even better. If it upsets someone who was looking for a "polished brand experience," they’re in the wrong place anyway.

From here on out, the only "audience" I’m writing for is myself. If you find something here that resonates, great, pull up a chair. But I’m done performing for the algorithm. I’m just going to say it as it is and let the chips fall where they may.

It’s liberating to finally stop caring.

Can We Get People Voting Again?

So, I'm standing as a Liberal Democrat paper candidate this May in Horbury and South Ossett. I’ve been looking back at previous election results, and what I found really surprised me. When the final votes are counted in local elections, the numbers often tell a heartbreaking story. It isn’t just about which party wins or loses; it’s the fact that, so often, only about a third of our community shows up. That means nearly two-thirds of our neighbours effectively have no say in how their local area is run.

Since I uncovered this last week, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about that silent majority. I refuse to believe that the people who stay home don’t care. I know they care. They care about the state of our roads and pavements, bin collections, fly-tipping, the quality of our children’s education, and the dignity of social care for our elderly. Talking to people about this, there is a very strong view that politics is just something that happens to us, rather than something we can actually shape.

Local Politics Isn’t Broken ... It’s Waiting for You

I hear it all the time: "Why bother? My vote can't influence anything!" But that’s just not true. From transport and infrastructure to the very heart of our local economy, local authorities decide how millions of pounds of our money is spent. When we don't vote, we aren't "protesting", we are simply handing over a blank cheque to someone else to make those decisions for us.

Let’s just address this very dangerous myth that one vote doesn’t matter. In local elections, margins are often razor-thin. A single vote really does have the power to make a huge difference. If we take Horbury and South Ossett as an example, in the 2021 local elections, there were only 45 votes between the winner and second place! That is a handful of households. That is one street of people deciding the future for everyone else.

The Candidate Problem

Looking at the local landscape again, Labour has held control here since 2021, yet I don’t see their candidates out there promoting their achievements (perhaps because there aren't many) or even their party’s policies. To me, that’s scary. Right now in Westminster, the Labour Party and Keir Starmer are in hot water over the Peter Mandelson situation, and by staying silent locally, they are risking a knee-jerk reaction from our community. I’m personally worried that if people feel ignored by the left, they might end up looking too far to the right out of sheer frustration.

Candidates need to provide clear information because it pushes the local agenda and boosts turnout significantly. We don't need more "politics-as-usual"; people need a reason to believe their voice actually counts.

I am standing because I want to lower the barrier between the "political elite" and the real world. I want to show that local government isn't just some "minority interest" for people in suits; it is the direct engine room of our quality of life and our local spending power. This May, I'm hoping that the local electorate across the country don't let the silence decide their future.

Quick Microwave Protein Bread

I adore bread, but sometimes I know I need to cut down my consumption and eat something a bit healthier.

This is one of those handy little recipes that takes hardly any effort and gives you a quick, high-protein bread alternative in just a few minutes.

The basic idea works well, but if you find it tastes a little too eggy, a few small tweaks can make it feel more like bread and less like a microwaved omelette.

Ingredients

• 3 dessertspoons of oat bran
• 1 dessertspoon of plain yogurt
• 1 dessertspoon of milk
• 1 egg
• 1/2 teaspoon of baking powder
• A small pinch of salt

Method

1. Add all the ingredients to a mug, ramekin, or small microwave-safe bowl.
2. Mix well until the batter is smooth.
3. Microwave for 2 minutes to 2 minutes 30 seconds, until nicely set. I use a shallow microwave-safe dish so it cooks in a good 'slice' shape
4. Leave it to stand for 1 to 2 minutes before turning it out. This helps it firm up and improves the texture.
5. Slice if needed, then grill both sides until lightly browned.

Easy Ways To Improve The Flavour

• Add a pinch of black pepper for a more savoury finish.
• Try a little garlic powder or onion powder to mask any egginess.
• A small sprinkle of grated cheese works well if you want more flavour

Approximate Nutrition Per Bread

• Calories: around 130 to 140 kcal
• Protein: around 10 to 11g
• Carbohydrates: around 13 to 15g
• Fat: around 6 to 7g
• Fibre: around 2 to 3g

Nutrition is approximate and will vary depending on the yogurt, milk, and exact spoon sizes used.

Serving Idea

This works nicely as a quick breakfast bread, toasted sandwich base, or something to have alongside eggs, cottage cheese, or a bit of peanut butter if you want to push the protein up further. As a vegetarian, I like to have this bread with Quorn Sausages or grilled Quorn Fillets for a filling lunch.

The Decisive Moment

I took this photo of a clownfish at the Jewel of the Sea Aquarium in SeaWorld, Orlando, back in April 2011. Just as I hit the shutter, a regal tang swam into frame.

It was only later, when I looked back at the image, that it clicked. I’d unintentionally captured Marlin and Dory (yes of Finding Nemo fame) together.

People often talk about Henri Cartier-Bresson and his idea of “The Decisive Moment”... that split second where everything comes together and you press the shutter with intent.

This wasn’t that.

This was pure luck. And maybe that’s what makes it even better.

Original photo by Andrew Scaife

Cleaned up by AI

Story: When Rosie met Sammy (Kids)

years ago, when my daughters were very young, I used to write little stories about the things they loved. This is one of them about our adorable (and sometimes slightly chaotic) family cat.

Suitable for ages 4 to 8 (read-aloud).

Story 2 of 2 in the “Rosie the Cat” series

When Rosie Met Sammy

Rosie is a small black and white cat. She lives in a big house and is looked after by two little girls.

Emily and Rebecca loved looking after Rosie, and each night they fed her and let her go outside to play.

One night, after Rosie had eaten her supper, she walked down the garden path, jumped onto the wall at the bottom of the garden, and settled down to sleep. All was quiet… well, almost.

Rosie could hear someone crying.

She looked up and down. She saw nothing. She looked left and right, and there, at the end of the wall, she saw a small squirrel sitting with its head in its paws, crying.

Rosie quietly walked over to the poor, sobbing animal.

“Hello,” said Rosie.

“Hello,” sobbed the squirrel.

“I’m Rosie,” said Rosie.

“I’m Sammy,” answered the squirrel.

“What’s the matter, Sammy?” asked Rosie.

“I’m lost,” replied Sammy, and he began to cry again. “I was playing, then exploring, and now I’m lost. I can’t find my way home.”

Rosie looked around to try to help her new friend.

“Do you live in these bushes?” she asked, trying to help.

Sammy looked at the bushes in the garden. They looked dark and prickly.

“No,” answered Sammy.

Rosie looked around again.

“Do you live in the shed?” she asked, looking towards the shed at the bottom of her garden.

Sammy looked at the shed. It looked warm, dry, and friendly, but it wasn’t where he lived.

“No,” the sad squirrel answered again.

“I live in a tree,” said Sammy. “In a drey.”

“A drey?” questioned Rosie.

“Yes, a drey is the place where squirrels live. They are dry, comfortable, and warm, and they are built high in trees.”

Suddenly, somewhere in the distance, a dog barked, giving Rosie and Sammy a fright.

“I don’t like it here,” said Sammy.

“Can you remember anything about where your drey is?” asked Rosie.

“Well,” said Sammy, thinking hard, “it’s in a tree. In fact, there are a lot of trees near it. It’s near a place where children play, and there is a small stream nearby.”

Rosie beamed a huge smile.

“I think I know where that is, Sammy.”

“Really? Is it far away?” asked Sammy, now smiling too.

“Not very far at all,” said Rosie.

They jumped down from the garden wall, and Rosie led the way. “We’ll stick to the shadows,” she said quietly, “and keep away from the street lights.”

They moved quickly down the road, staying close to the hedges, before darting into a big bush at the end. Cars passed by, their headlights sweeping across the road, but Rosie and Sammy stayed perfectly still, hidden in the darkness.

“This way,” whispered Rosie.

They slipped down the side of a house and into a back garden. Rosie peered ahead. The coast was clear.

She leapt over a fence, with Sammy hopping close behind, and they dropped down on the other side.

In front of them was a steep bank, and below it, a small stream. Across the stream, they could see a wooded area.

Rosie spotted a fallen branch nearby.

“Over here, Sammy,” she whispered.

Together, they hurried across the branch, balancing carefully as they crossed the stream. Then they climbed up the bank on the other side and pushed through thick, dense hedges.

When they emerged, Sammy’s eyes lit up.

Across the grassy clearing in front of them, and beyond a small childrens play area was a cluster of tall trees.

“Rosie, that’s it… I’m home!” he squeaked with delight.

Sammy gave Rosie a quick, grateful hug before racing across the grass, past a climbing frame and a set of swings, and up the nearest tree. High above, Rosie could see another squirrel rush forward and wrap him in a relieved hug.

Sammy turned, waved down at Rosie, and then disappeared into his drey.

Rosie sat for a moment, watching the tree, pleased that her new friend was safe.

Then, with a flick of her tail, she turned and quietly made her way back home, ready for a well-earned sleep.

An original story by Andrew Scaife (written in 2006)
© Andrew Scaife, 2006–. All rights reserved.

Story: Rosie and the Playtime (Kids)

years ago, when my daughters were very young, I used to write little stories about the things they loved. This is one of them about adorable (and sometimes slightly chaotic) family cat.

Suitable for ages 4 to 8 (read-aloud).

Story 1 of 2 in the “Rosie the Cat” series

Rosie and the Playtime

Rosie loved the little girls that she lived with very much, but Emily and Rebecca were a little too bouncy and active for her sometimes, and all Rosie wanted to do most of the time was sleep.

Rosie loved to sleep and would spend large amounts of the day snoozing in a warm corner of the house, or under a particularly fragrant bush in the garden, and she never liked to have her sleep disturbed.

On this particular Sunday morning, Rosie had got herself settled nicely in front of the warm fire when she heard the unmistakable sound of the girls running downstairs, shouting her name.

“Rosie, Rosie, come out and play!” they both shouted together.

Rosie lifted her head, opened her eyes slightly, then simply settled down again as she listened to the laughter of the girls getting further and further away.

It seemed to Rosie that she had just got her head down again when Emily sat alongside her and started to stroke her.

“Come on Rosie,” whispered the excited little girl, “come and play with your toy mouse.”

Rosie was then aware of her favourite toy being galloped along the floor and all over her tired body. Rosie just rolled further onto her side and covered her eyes with her paws, stretching out her long, slender body for a good old stretch, before curling back into a ball.

But the girls were not going to give up that easily.

Rebecca leaned in close and whispered, “If you come and play, Rosie, you can have some extra treats later.”

One eye slowly opened.

Rosie lifted her head again, this time a little higher. Treats were something Rosie understood very well.

With a long, slow stretch, she finally stood up, flicked her tail, and began to walk quietly towards the back door. The girls looked at each other, trying to stay quiet, but their excitement bubbled over as they followed her outside.

In the garden, Rosie came alive.

She darted across the lawn, chasing after sticks the girls dragged along the grass. She pounced at invisible creatures only she could see, leaping high into the air before landing softly and racing off again. The girls chased her, laughing and calling her name, running back and forth across the garden.

For a while, Rosie forgot all about her nap.

Eventually, though, Rosie slowed. She stopped, looked around… and realised the girls were no longer chasing her.

Curious, she padded back towards the house.

The back door was still open. Rosie slipped inside and made her way into the living room.

There, curled up on the sofa, were Emily and Rebecca, fast asleep. Their playtime had worn them out completely.

Rosie paused for a moment, then jumped up gently between them. She turned in a small circle, settled herself comfortably, and with a soft purr, closed her eyes.

And so, after all that excitement, she finally got what they wanted… a nice, peaceful sleep.

An original story by Andrew Scaife (written in 2006)
© Andrew Scaife, 2006–. All rights reserved.