#LittleDeaths #OtherWomen Longlisted: #WomensPrize, #DEP17, #CWA Gold Dagger, @TheakstonsCrime Crime Novel of the Year. Amazon #1 bestseller
Joined June 2013
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Emma Flint (flint.writes on Threads)📚💀🖤📚 retweeted
I had a fess published a few years ago about how I couldn't connect with my lifelong pals cos all they wanted to do was booze and take coke. I told them how I felt, turned out they thought the same and now we climb Munro's on Sundays. Lads, talk to your pals.
Emma Flint (flint.writes on Threads)📚💀🖤📚 retweeted
“Most of us have small, sad places in our hearts. My father felt deeply but kept his feelings to himself. Or rather, being a writer, he let them escape in his writing. And so such sadnesses as there were put on cap and bells and emerged as Eeyore.”~C.R.Milne #WorldMentalHealthDay
Emma Flint (flint.writes on Threads)📚💀🖤📚 retweeted
‘The Tiffany Problem’ is a term coined by the author Jo Walton to describe the tension between historical fact and the popular perception of history. No one would believe that a woman in the Middle Ages could be named Tiffany, yet it was a real medieval name.
Emma Flint (flint.writes on Threads)📚💀🖤📚 retweeted
Six months ago I drove to Bedfordshire and adopted a man dressed up as a cat. His name is Howard Kevin 💖
Emma Flint (flint.writes on Threads)📚💀🖤📚 retweeted
Pope Leo XIV: “Someone who says, ‘I’m against abortion,’ but says, ‘I’m in favor of the death penalty,’ is not really pro-life.”
Emma Flint (flint.writes on Threads)📚💀🖤📚 retweeted
Televising a public execution is beyond disgusting and barbaric. The death penalty should not exist, let alone be a live-streamed spectacle.
This is a grotesque violation of human dignity. We must oppose this - and the death penalty - everywhere.
bbc.co.uk/news/articles/cmy0…
Emma Flint (flint.writes on Threads)📚💀🖤📚 retweeted
Somehow, the world feels like a better place now that I know that a gathering of ladybirds is called a 'loveliness'. So here's a loveliness of ladybirds on a twinklement of stained glass at St. Mary's, Brownshill, Gloucestershire.
Mother pigs deserve space to move, nest and care for their piglets. Take action now. bit.ly/help-mother-pigs-x #EndTheCageAge
This is so lovely.
On the 20th of October 1984, 11-year-old Craig Bromfield and his 12-year-old brother Aaron went down to the Seaburn Hotel in Sunderland hoping to get some autographs from the Nottingham Forest players.
Aaron spotted Brian Clough walking along the seafront with some of his staff.
The boys went over and politely called him Mr Clough.
Clough took one look at them.
They had no coats on, they were freezing and Aaron had just been swimming in the sea in his pants.
Clough called them a couple of “ragtags.”
He told them they would “catch their bloody death” dressed like that, and asked if they had eaten any breakfast.
They hadn’t.
Clough took them back into the hotel and got them fed.
Then he told them they could travel to the match with Nottingham Forest on the team bus, as long as they went home first and got permission from their parents.
So Craig and Aaron ran the two miles home to Southwick, asked if they could go and ran back again.
Once they were on the bus, Clough sat at the front and told them to “bugger off” to the back, where Forest kept the chocolate, crisps and fizzy drinks.
They could help themselves.
Just don’t disturb the players.
For two boys who had grown up in and out of care, begging strangers for money and being sent out to steal, it was the best day of their lives.
Craig never got the chance to thank Clough properly, so afterwards he wrote him a letter.
Clough wrote back.
He told Craig he was pleased they had enjoyed themselves and hoped he would see them again.
At the bottom he signed it:
“Be good, Love Brian.”
Not long afterwards, Sunderland drew Nottingham Forest at Roker Park in the League Cup.
Craig and Aaron were waiting at the Seaburn Hotel before the Forest team had even arrived.
When Clough stepped off the bus, he hugged them.
Again, he decided they looked as though they needed feeding.
He told them to go inside and order whatever they wanted.
Forest returned to Sunderland again just before Christmas.
This time, Clough brought presents.
The boys were given a football signed by the Forest squad and padded jackets.
Clough hadn’t forgotten how they had looked the first morning he met them.
“Now you’ve no excuse for not bringing your coats.”
But Clough’s involvement in their lives didn’t stop with football.
One day outside the ground, Craig spotted four boys from school who had been bullying him.
Clough noticed something was wrong and asked him about it.
Craig told him.
Clough walked over to the four boys.
He gave each of them a ticket for the match.
Then he gave them a warning.
“I know who you are and I know where you all live, and I’ll come round to yer mams’. Now bugger off!”
They never bullied Craig again.
Over the next few years, Craig and Aaron became part of Clough’s family.
They stayed at his home in Derbyshire, played in the games room, went into Nigel Clough’s bedroom, travelled with Forest and were treated like little brothers by Clough’s children.
“We had been brought up to believe nobody could love us; that we were unlovable.”
“For the first time, we felt loved and special.”
When Craig was 16, his parents decided to move to London without him.
Clough told him to come and live with his family.
He went from being the 11-year-old boy outside the Seaburn Hotel without a coat to travelling to work with Brian Clough, helping out in the Forest dressing room and sitting in the dugout as they won at Wembley.
Years later, Craig was asked what his life might have looked like if he had never walked over to Brian Clough that morning in Sunderland.
“If Brian hadn’t done what he did, I wouldn’t have had a life, because I would have been in prison.”
#football
Emma Flint (flint.writes on Threads)📚💀🖤📚 retweeted
On the 20th of October 1984, 11-year-old Craig Bromfield and his 12-year-old brother Aaron went down to the Seaburn Hotel in Sunderland hoping to get some autographs from the Nottingham Forest players.
Aaron spotted Brian Clough walking along the seafront with some of his staff.
The boys went over and politely called him Mr Clough.
Clough took one look at them.
They had no coats on, they were freezing and Aaron had just been swimming in the sea in his pants.
Clough called them a couple of “ragtags.”
He told them they would “catch their bloody death” dressed like that, and asked if they had eaten any breakfast.
They hadn’t.
Clough took them back into the hotel and got them fed.
Then he told them they could travel to the match with Nottingham Forest on the team bus, as long as they went home first and got permission from their parents.
So Craig and Aaron ran the two miles home to Southwick, asked if they could go and ran back again.
Once they were on the bus, Clough sat at the front and told them to “bugger off” to the back, where Forest kept the chocolate, crisps and fizzy drinks.
They could help themselves.
Just don’t disturb the players.
For two boys who had grown up in and out of care, begging strangers for money and being sent out to steal, it was the best day of their lives.
Craig never got the chance to thank Clough properly, so afterwards he wrote him a letter.
Clough wrote back.
He told Craig he was pleased they had enjoyed themselves and hoped he would see them again.
At the bottom he signed it:
“Be good, Love Brian.”
Not long afterwards, Sunderland drew Nottingham Forest at Roker Park in the League Cup.
Craig and Aaron were waiting at the Seaburn Hotel before the Forest team had even arrived.
When Clough stepped off the bus, he hugged them.
Again, he decided they looked as though they needed feeding.
He told them to go inside and order whatever they wanted.
Forest returned to Sunderland again just before Christmas.
This time, Clough brought presents.
The boys were given a football signed by the Forest squad and padded jackets.
Clough hadn’t forgotten how they had looked the first morning he met them.
“Now you’ve no excuse for not bringing your coats.”
But Clough’s involvement in their lives didn’t stop with football.
One day outside the ground, Craig spotted four boys from school who had been bullying him.
Clough noticed something was wrong and asked him about it.
Craig told him.
Clough walked over to the four boys.
He gave each of them a ticket for the match.
Then he gave them a warning.
“I know who you are and I know where you all live, and I’ll come round to yer mams’. Now bugger off!”
They never bullied Craig again.
Over the next few years, Craig and Aaron became part of Clough’s family.
They stayed at his home in Derbyshire, played in the games room, went into Nigel Clough’s bedroom, travelled with Forest and were treated like little brothers by Clough’s children.
“We had been brought up to believe nobody could love us; that we were unlovable.”
“For the first time, we felt loved and special.”
When Craig was 16, his parents decided to move to London without him.
Clough told him to come and live with his family.
He went from being the 11-year-old boy outside the Seaburn Hotel without a coat to travelling to work with Brian Clough, helping out in the Forest dressing room and sitting in the dugout as they won at Wembley.
Years later, Craig was asked what his life might have looked like if he had never walked over to Brian Clough that morning in Sunderland.
“If Brian hadn’t done what he did, I wouldn’t have had a life, because I would have been in prison.”
#football
🤖 Made with AI
Emma Flint (flint.writes on Threads)📚💀🖤📚 retweeted
Almost everybody has heard the last five minutes of Kevin Cosgrove's life. Hardly anyone knows a single thing about the other 46 years.
So here he is.
He was born in New York in 1955, one of seven kids in a big Long Island family. He met a waitress named Wendy and married her in 1980. She became a schoolteacher. They settled in West Islip and had three children, Brian, Claire, and Elizabeth, who on September 11, 2001 were 12, 9, and 4 years old.
He was the guy on the block who shoveled the walks of the elderly widows in winter without being asked, and carried packages for old couples the rest of the year. That is not a eulogy flourish, it is what his neighbors actually said about him.
At home he was the soft one. He let the kids eat dinner backward, dessert first, which his wife pointed out made her look like the strict parent by default. His youngest, Elizabeth, who was four, remembered him as a good snuggler. That is the memory a four-year-old gets to keep.
He worked as a vice president of claims at Aon, on the 105th floor of the South Tower. He was also his company's fire warden, which meant that in an emergency his assigned job was to get other people out of the building.
When the North Tower was hit at 8:46 he called Wendy to tell her he was fine and that he was getting out.
At 9:03 Flight 175 hit his building.
At 9:54 he got through to a 911 dispatcher from a colleague's office, with two other men next to him, Doug Cherry and John Ostaru. He gave his name. He gave his floor. He told them how many people were with him and what the conditions were, calmly, the way a fire warden is trained to. He asked them to send someone. He told them he had young children.
And he said the line that has followed him for a quarter century.
"We're young men. We're not ready to die."
The tower came down at 9:59, five minutes into the call. I am not going to transcribe the end of it. Anyone who has heard it does not need me to, and his family has had to live with the fact that the worst moment of their father's life is a clip that strangers pass around for shock value.
The recording is public at all because federal prosecutors entered it as evidence in the trial of Zacarias Moussaoui in 2006, and Wendy Cosgrove took the stand in that trial and testified about what her husband's last minutes did to her children.
His remains were recovered, which is more than most of the families got.
If you have listened to that call, and most people have, you owe him the rest of it. He was a big Irish kid from Long Island who married a waitress, raised three children, gave them dessert first, cleared his neighbors' sidewalks, and was standing on the 105th floor that morning partly because getting other people out was literally his job.
His name was Kevin Cosgrove and he was a lot more than five minutes of audio.
Emma Flint (flint.writes on Threads)📚💀🖤📚 retweeted
Then return to your wife @TiceRichard and tell your girlfriend to return to her husband @IsabelOakeshott and tell @Nigel_Farage to return to the mother of his children, and @LeeAndersonMP_ Fucking hypocrites!
Emma Flint (flint.writes on Threads)📚💀🖤📚 retweeted
Donald trump said Kamala Harris would raise gas prices by 25% so thank God you avoided that nightmare. Today gas prices are only up by 62%.
Emma Flint (flint.writes on Threads)📚💀🖤📚 retweeted
If you want to know who your prime minister is hear him speak about his father.
As someone who used to spend many hours in the bath reading and plotting, I feel VINDICATED!!!
Happy Birthday to @AgathaChristie - born #otd (15th September) in 1890. 🎉
She said that she came up with her ingenious detective plots by sitting in an old-fashioned bathtub eating apples.
It was a core part of her technique.
She got the seed of an idea, then fleshed it out.
ALT A black and white photograph of an old rolltop bath. Agatha Christie's head is poking out at one end and there are 3 half-eaten apples sitting on the rim of the bath