Tag Archives: writing
The Sweet Sound of Pear Wood
It had lain in its case, on top of the CDs, since I moved here last April. Occasionally, I would pick it up and blow the dust off the black cloth case, but never open it, even though I longed … Continue reading
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
Autumn as a Touchstone
I asked to have my latte at my usual small round table just outside the door, on the step above the pavement, while the weather still allows it. Soon, it will be too cold or too wet, and I will … Continue reading
In Grantchester.
My friend C. has a sticker on her vehicle, which says, “My other car is a broom”. She keeps it by the back door, ready to sweep out dust and other unwanted dirt. To keep the house clean from unpleasant … Continue reading
Turandot – A Story of Redemption
One of my favourite operas – if not my actual favourite – is Turandot. Inspired by the Persian fairy tale Turan-Dokht, it was Giacomo Puccini’s swansong, left unfinished at his death and completed by Franco Alfano. There is something profoundly different about … Continue reading
Interview About Writing
Rupert Davies-Cooke, of the Original Writers Group, interviewed me about writing in August 2013. Scribe Doll
Three Women in the Kitchen
Three women in a South-West London kitchen, on a scorching summer afternoon. The only cool room in the house. Only the red setting sun peers through these windows. Three women in a South-West London kitchen. One, in the early Spring … Continue reading
Sunday at the Globe
Focussing my thoughts is proving impossible, this weekend. Like trying to corral cats. They dart across the room, bounce off the walls, whizz past me before I can catch them, hover before my eyes, teasing, then spiral upwards at vertiginous … Continue reading
Deciphering the Music Code
Saturday morning. My friend L. and I are on the ‘phone, arranging one of our brunches in Notting Hill. Her soft Irish tone turns businesslike. “Now do you want to come up for your lesson before or after brunch?” I … Continue reading
Trees as Story-Hoarders
Someday, I would like to live near a weeping willow. “You’re mad! It’ll wreck your water pipes!” My beloved friend S., with her bucketful of sobering practicality. “Their roots are so long, they’ll reach out from the bottom of your … Continue reading