“Flannery O’Connor’s fiction also explores this distinctly Southern paradox through the symbol of the “old child”. Like Faulkner, she creates child characters who are disillusioned by the inactivity and lack of belief in their parent’s generation and subsequently construct their identity on the model of an elderly figure, only to suffer a tug of loyalties
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On Wednesday we ate. A lot. I’d show you how much. But then I’d have to do laps. Steph helped. Of course. But she never sits still. And always looks like a blur in my point-and-shoot pics.
We, Steph and I, climbed out at Bridge Street and ducked into a Tesco Express for paracetamol and hand sanitizer. Hoping they had a loo too. They didn’t. But they did have the bulk standard Meal Deal which we lunched on in the Square – a little patch of grass near Parliament which, it should
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My grandmother tells me I look like my mother. And when I put on her old flannel shirt circa 1975… She laughs, “It’s enough to confuse anyone!” Pity I didn’t get the washboard abs she liked to sport, even at six months pregnant (I do not lie), or her Nefertiti neck. But I did get
Dear Flynn, I agree. It is a mite on the impolite side to turn down a generosity like sausage. Also, if you grew up in West Virginia in the 80s, you’re kinda like a war baby. Rations and all. Force of habit. I ate a crooked crumpet smothered in full fat maple syrup last night
It took three tries before I finally convinced myself to get out of bed this morning. Since I had no one to coerce me up and at ’em, I lay there until 10:00am. The Euro, in an effort to not catch everything I have, has been sleeping in the guest room this week. He says
Flynn: I read this morning that Bette Midler’s husband bought her the entire Penguin Classics series. That’s adorable. I have a real soft spot for her cause she’s just so brassy and sassy but self-aware and, you know, Beaches. Me: I’m with you on Bette. Also, she’s top heavy. And I like those sort of
“The Writer must write what he has to say. Not speak it.” – Hemingway I can count the people who’ve seen me cry on half a hand. I joke that I’m emotionally stunted. And that’s the joke…that it’s not one. It’s something I’m working on. An ‘In Progress’ type thing. On Christmas Eve I sat
My mother is all about kitschy Christmas. She can’t help herself. Everything is red and green and mechanical with puffballs and candy canes and Santa Claus. I have a fabulous pair of elf socks, and this lovely trucker hat (of a sort) to prove it. Speaking of the mother…we always take photos of her Yorkie
If you live in Cheshire, or anywhere thereabouts, then Delemere Forrest is really the only place you should be getting your trees. The whole thing becomes a festive event. Like the opening scene from National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. Trekking out to the almost-middle-of-nowhere. Hiking it from there. Except, of course, it’s so much prettier. Because
