It was hot. There was not the sound of a single bee buzzing. The wood appeared to be empty of animals, and magical beings.
Breeze was on his way to the river. 604 more words
Lately, my eldest has been devouring books like a caterpillar expecting an immanent leaf shortage. So much so that despite his shelves being laden with books his hunger for new, uncharted territory is proving hard to keep up with. 817 more words
Floating around the edges of my brain in this very very busy week has been Colm Toibin’s Brooklyn. I keep glimpsing the movie posters (it feels like it ought to be called a movie, not a film) as I stride along tube tunnels rushing from one meeting to the next, and there was a lovely unignorable article on the costumes in last week’s New Yorker. 695 more words