Tag Archives: scribe doll
From a Word that Means “Bridge”
Brugge. That’s what I want to call it from now on. It’s in Flanders, not Wallonia. How typical of the Anglophones – the British in particular – to use its French name by default. We haven’t grown out … Continue reading
The Polish Woman on the Bus
The emotional memory of that day is much stronger than the memory of the event’s details. It was 1981 and I was coming home from school on the bus. I was sixteen. Without a word, she presented a card … Continue reading
The First Day of Spring?
Last Sunday morning, 20th March, radio presenters were cheerfully announcing the first day of spring. “It’s not the first day of spring – it’s the vernal equinox!” I grumbled once again. I do that: talk back at radio presenters, cheer … Continue reading
Just a Five-Pound Teapot
I bought the teapot in Boots. White with blue and yellow flowers. Back when there was a Boots in Sidney Street. When they still sold a few household goods and stationery. I paid about five pounds for it. I … Continue reading
New Year’s Eve
A tower of books is rising in the corridor, taller, wonkier by the minute, until it comes tumbling down. I scoop the books into several plastic bags. They’re going to Oxfam. Books I no longer like. Books I don’t care … Continue reading
Yuletide
There are things you can’t tell other people – or only just a few people, perhaps: that you love the time of year when nights are long. That you long for the moment, at around four o’clock, when you watch the … Continue reading
Unapologetic Anthropomorphism
Scribe Doll
Why I Find Emojis Sinister
“You just take it too seriously,” F. has told me over the thirty-five years we’ve been friends. Over the decades, the it has referred to various situations I’ve felt strongly about. From having to deal with unnecessary and time-consuming bureaucracy … Continue reading
A Necklace of Words
1. Sfumatura (Italian): a shade, a nuance, but I love the sound of the word fumo (smoke) that forms it. A graduation in colour that’s as subtle as smoke; its very sound evokes a swirl of gossamer. Close your eyes … Continue reading
I Want to Live Among People with Salt
Grey outside; on my improvised worktop, red, green, white and gold. Murky, rainy, chilly, gloomy. An early autumn. But not with the wistful charm of Johnny Mercer’s lyrics. Not like the entrance of a Jerry Herman heroine, who swoops down … Continue reading