I was at a funeral once; a hot day so blistering I could feel my skin curling at the edges. The Wake was in a garden manicured like a posh ladies’ fingernail. The garden had a steep sloping nature; three tiers like a grassy amphitheatre with the odd sunburst of a dandelion puncturing the lush […]Read more "Mr Tumble and the Garden of Descent"
What is a blog anyway? Ah, well here goes then…Read more "From the brain to the plate"