At the moment I am reading a book called The Sweetness of Water and I came across this paragraph: I hate to think what my tree would look like. Not a blossom tree, far too pink and admirable, a bonsai? Never reaching any potential, a rotten and dying tree? I'm being a bit more positive …
Home again, home again.
Five weeks in a flash and a month of Sundays or longer. Clear perfect blue skies day after day with absolutely no skin-peeling sunburn. Clockwork gloriousness, every day something joyful, marvellous, beautiful and different. And now here I am, jet lag over, all the familiars gathering around me, possibly jeering and leering at me, beached …
Fluffy George 