Coming home

When I was a kid, I had the standard fare of Enid Blyton books and if I can trust my memory, one of them was a book of poetry about Noddy and Toytown. Would you believe I can still pretty closely quote one of them, and the ever-helpful www has given me the correct words... Continue Reading →

write in pencil only …

because there is something so much more tactile about using a pencil, instead of this machine I use, which is always at some remove; because for me, it suggests that we play around with ideas that are never final, always changing; because I’m planning on spending some time in the British Library looking at fourteenth-century... Continue Reading →

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