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Auntie Augusta here. Excuse me a moment while I switch my outdoor cardigan for my indoor one. There we go. I can’t bear telling stories improperly dressed. Welcome, welcome. Come in, come in. I am here. A little further. Don’t be
A photograph of the Kritios Boy is open in my book. It has been open for some time. I cannot take my eyes from the grainy reproduction of the marble statue from 480BC. I can hardly bear not being able
I have been musing much on mud recently. It is spring. There is much mangling of the earth in the name of seasonal regeneration. Blackbirds are plucking at it until they emerge with things that wriggle and divots of it