Monday Moments: Borrowed From Life

This month, we’re focusing on the theme ‘Borrowed’ for the final time. I’ve been thinking about how writers are borrowers, in that we take inspiration from life and put that into our work.

To write, we must observe. It is said that Charles Dickens walked 15 to 20 miles a day through the streets of London to watch ordinary people, capturing their mannerisms and dialect to craft realistic characters for his novels. The people and places we come across in everyday life can inform our work in all sorts of ways; it would be remiss to think that stories come purely from the imagination.

I think the most arresting characters are those that are drawn from life, because we see in them something we recognise – some quirk that makes them feel more real. They don’t have to be likeable, but the most captivating characters have something tangible about them. And settings are rendered most vividly when they’re rooted in something familiar, even if only vaguely so. Dickens’ flaneurism makes itself known in his work. Perhaps that’s why his novels are still popular today. We read stories to escape, yes, but we also read them to connect us to what’s around us – to the things that matter most.

The pieces I’ve chosen for my page this month have each borrowed from life. These are immersive pieces of writing, with richly rendered tableaus that speak to the profound.

First, we have a prose piece by Andrea Cunha. Here, the narrator observes passengers on a train journey and begins to reflect on some of the bigger questions we have about life.

The Sway Of Life

Another Sunday on the train, on my way to work, and intrusive thoughts are inevitable. I observe the people around me: chatting, reading, immersed in laptops or phones. Beside me, a surly-looking man sits deep in thought. Looking at him, I wonder: is he desperate? Is he carrying a burden he believes has no way out?

It’s curious how we believe our pains are the only ones without a solution. We grow desperate, lose sleep but, as with everything in life, time passes and takes the weight of anguish with it. Sometimes, when someone tells us, “Don’t worry, it will pass,” we even feel a certain indignation. It is as though the other person has no inkling of the battle we are facing. But the fact is, it truly does pass. Despair, in the end, is a boisterous passenger who doesn’t stay for the final stop.

Life is a game: one moment we win, the next we lose but, even when we lose, we gain: experience and lessons. And I tell you, nothing is more rewarding than experience. I wish I were 18 again with the head I have today; everything would be so different! But for everything, there is a time. Life is a school, a time of learning that seems to have no end. As in any school, there are those who learn and those who never seem to understand the lesson. For lack of effort? Distraction? Laziness? I don’t know. Let’s not judge them – everyone knows their own path.

Returning to the sway of the train, I try to imagine where those people are coming from and where they’re going. Are they headed to work, like me, or home, towards a well-deserved rest?

Human beings are so complex that it becomes difficult to find a kindred spirit. I’m not just talking about romance, but about good friendships; that connection where a mere look is enough to understand the message. Someone we love as if they were our own blood. If you have such a person, cherish them. Cultivate that friendship, it’s worth its weight in gold. We live in difficult times, where selfishness grows and few want to give their time to listen or advise. Friendship is a foundation. It’s knowing that, come what may, someone will be there for us.

It’s inevitable not to recall the friendship of my father, a Brazilian, with his great Portuguese friend, Adão. A brotherhood of over 50 years that was born at work and became family. I grew up with his children as if we were cousins. What a beautiful friendship. They fell ill at the same time: my father with lung cancer and Adão with a weakened heart. They spoke weekly via video call, each in their own bed, weakened by illness but firm in their affection.

When my father passed away, Adão called repeatedly because he had disappeared. I did not answer; I feared the news of his great friend’s death might take him too. I decided to speak with his wife. It was that family’s right to decide how to break such terrible news. I didn’t see his reaction, but know it was a delicate and sad moment. Their friendship was so deep that, while organising my father’s documents and belongings for donation, I found a tucked-away photo of Adão’s daughter as a newborn, alongside mine. And 50 years had already passed. That small photograph said everything about their bond.

That’s the beauty of friendship: coming to love and share a history with someone who was once a stranger, but who became an essential part of who we are. That’s why I follow my father’s path. I value good friendships and make time for them, despite the rush of life here in London. So, here is my humble message: set aside time for your friend. Call them, arrange a coffee or tea, or perhaps a lunch or dinner. Be present for those who, even from a distance, live in your heart, because in the sway of life, what remains are these encounters.

© Andrea Cunha, 2026

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Next, we have a piece by Jonathan Chibuike Ukah, who makes us privy to an important marital moment. I love the sensory richness of the scene and the vivid portrayal of the characters here.

The Day I Cooked For My Wife

How unfamiliar was this terrain
where I held a twenty-pound note,
thinking about what best to buy
for my wife, who was visiting for the first time.
How the worst cook in the world
could prepare something good for the best,
must be in the annals of culinary contests,
a man born an eating nerd and a taker.
A packet of Walnuts, one bottle of Olive oil,
a sachet of black chocolate wrapped in a gift bag
or a hamper basket filled with sweets,
salads and fruit, oats and pears
offered themselves as totems of my love
for a wife arriving from black Africa.
My wife’s cooking was a sedative,
like the kiss of the wind on my temples,
a caress, a touch of her silk handkerchief.
My wife’s cooking was a lullaby each night
I returned home with labyrinths of wrinkles.
At last, I chose to cook black and white beans,
as a novelty for her who was a mistress
of all the culinary traditions of modern times.
When my wife landed at the Heathrow airport,
I whisked her away in a purple limousine,
beads of sweat trickling down her cardigan,
soaked her face, eyes and slender arms,
while I felt that my cooking had begun.
I forgot to warn her about the London weather.
A woman in a red blouse stared at her
while a man in a blue short-sleeve shirt
yawned due to the heatwave that left him panicking.
A sigh sounded near me; it was a girl
who wore a white bra above white underwear.
My wife turned and covered her face.
Sanity hides its face from madness.
I vanished into my kitchen with a hand fan,
the gas cooker was already red hot, sparking,
oozing yellow smoke and red embers,
though the stockfish seemed unperturbed.
My wife must be among the few friends I keep.
I contrive to cook something delicate and elegant;
a potpourri of my hand, feet and eyes as spices,
my heart is woven into the fire mix to garnish the meal,
a nose that can cover the width of the desert,
a shapeless body in a gymnastics of drinking,
everything that contains both liquid and gas.
The stockfish brew and my body were boiling,
when my soul began to rattle like splitting embers.
Was that a lavender flower on my wife’s lips
when she peered into my pot of hot cooking
and smelled the wonders vivid and fervent
struggling to warm up to the blackness of my kitchen?
All I wanted was to provoke the silent butterfly,
but ended up with a staggering anarchy of bees;
amazing how I turn my garden into a desert.
We don’t give up when it looks like we are losing;
we give up when we finally win.

© Jonathan Chibuike Ukah, 2026

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Finally, Edward Coombs conjures up an image of life in Dagenham, with a strong sense of community at its heart.

My Dagenham Banjo

Our street is a mile long, District Line one end, at the other, Castle Green.
It was our concrete football pitch,
And hardly a car to be seen.
On one side, war-time bomb shelters, redundant in Dawson School.
The other two Flamstead banjos used for hopscotch, and games played with a small ball.
Our cul-de-sac constructed from bricks and stone.
An urban village
So no need to be alone.
Our street horizon, you could see cargo bound for the Royal Docks and on a misty dawn.
You could hear the groan of a ship’s foghorn.
Our streets and gardens were neat and clean.
Well clipped privet hedges,
No dumped rubbish ever seen.
Pristine friendly and neighbourly, that was so.
A close community in our Dagenham banjo.

© Edward Coombs, 2026

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Issue 28, featuring Alison Weir is out now. You will find it in libraries and other outlets. Alternatively, all current and previous editions can be found on our magazines page here.

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