Tag Archives: scribedoll

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

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After the Solstice

A sound. I become aware of a sound.  It finds its way to me through the whirring of my laptop, the hissing of the electrical devices, the faint but constant buzzing of wattage adaptors in the ceiling, the dull, oppressive … Continue reading

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Brownie & Sentinel

“It’s like when you’re happy that two people you really like get together,” H. announced, smiling, after witnessing Brownie and Sentinel engaged in an intimate act on our kitchen balcony.  I understand it was a blink-and-you-miss-it, straight-to-the-point performance, but long … Continue reading

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And what of Italian Fairy Tales?

I would like to draw your attention to an interview I did with fellow Italian-English translator Lori Hetherington about her recently published translation of Emma Perodi’s TUSCAN TALES. There is a link to the interview on the website of the … Continue reading

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R. R. R.

Different ways of speech communication is one of my earliest memories. The fact that, at home, my mother and grandmother speak one way, and friends, neighbours and people in the street another. Then there’s the way my mother speaks to … Continue reading

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Religious Tolerance – Yes, But From Everybody, Please

I ask a man I’ve just met what he does for a living.  “I build boats,” he says, “like Jesus – I mean Noah –” he darts me a concerned look and holds out his hand in a halt sign, “I … Continue reading

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Crawling Slowly Out of the Dungeon

Work.  Work.  You’ve fallen behind with your work.  So you work without stopping.  Except for meals.  You can’t taste the food, really, because you keep glancing at your watch.  Time to get back to work.  When you go to bed … Continue reading

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On a Train from Norwich to Cambridge

The day is grey and very, very still, self-contained in drowsy introspection.  But maybe it’s not sleeping at all but quietly meditating, plotting an event, contemplating crafting its next miracle. The fog is blurring the silhouette of the trees, like … Continue reading

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The Busker

It was a voice carried by the wind through the semi-deserted streets of a Norwich Sunday afternoon. A voice that sang not into your ear but into your heart. I started walking towards it. He was standing outside NatWest Bank, … Continue reading

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Befriending Lady E.

VIP transport was arranged for her relocation from Ukraine.  Her immediate members of staff had moved to London ahead of her to get everything ready.  The flat, in a quiet, tree-lined street, was furnished; the fridge was stocked with her … Continue reading

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