Some people would argue that humanity’s defining characteristic is our intelligence. Hmm. Given our predilection for constantly endangering the future of our species through war, pollution and excessive exploitation of this our very precious, very small, green planet, I am not so sure about all that intelligence. Others will say it is our communication skills
When I was a child, now and then I’d pick up a handful of gravel and throw it up in the air, catching it with the back of my hand as it rained down. All of this was accompanied by a little rhyme along the lines “How many kids will I have when I grow
Several years ago, when I was still a child, my single greatest fear wasn’t that I was going to die – it was that my mother would. At the time, I was young enough to consider myself more or less immortal – life extended before me as an endless sea. But I was old enough
When I was a child, we’d sit and play with pine cones and twigs and… Nah; just kidding. (But we did occasionally play with pine cones – pelting each other with them – and sticks make excellent swords) Never mind what we played with, I think the crucial word here is the verb. We played.
Nobody ever called Margareta “the lady with the trousers” to her face. One of her contemporaries was fool enough to call her the “King without breeches” – and she made him bitterly regret doing so. And given that this was back in the 14th century when the general order of things was that men ruled
I try to be good. Okay, so some days I’m better at it than others, but I do try. In my experience. most people want to be good – or at least good enough for other people to like them. In general, you see, we don’t like bad people. Unless they’re filthy rich and drop-dead
Today I have the honour of welcoming Judith Arnopp to my blog. She has visited before (see here) and this time she is back with a post about one of the more intriguing men of the Tudor era, the much maligned Thomas Seymour. This gentleman figures prominently in Judith’s latest book, Intractable Heart. For those of
Thomas Seymour, husband to the queen – guest post by Judith Arnopp Read More »
Sometimes we forget about the little things: walking barefoot in dewy grass, sitting in that last patch of afternoon sunshine. Silly things, like the taste of cinnamon on a bun straight from the oven, or the warmth of sticky little fingers grabbing on to yours. Wonderful things, like skinny-dipping in the early dawn, or standing in the
Today, I thought I’d treat you to a short story – dedicated to Erin Davies – detailing the sad fates of Lieutenant Sixten Sparre and his paramour, tightrope dancer Elvira Madigan. The below takes place in July of 1889, in Denmark. It is a perfect summer day…. He took her by the hand when they left
One last time – of impossible love and its consequences Read More »
Talk about an obvious title… or maybe not: maybe some of you may think this is about body massage, about communicating your innermost feelings by touch. Not. This is about actually talking with your hands, and although I myself do not know how to do this, I am generally quite entranced when I watch someone