Aug 29, 2020 | Non-Fiction, Travel |
I am wary of the dangers of fetishizing dialect and archaism – all that mollocking and sukebinding Stella Gibbons spoofed so brilliantly in Cold Comfort Farm (1932). Wary, too, of being seen to advocate a tyranny of the nominal – a taxonomic need to point and name,...
Aug 3, 2019 | Fiction, Lyrics |
Have you got a biro I can borrow? I’d like to write your name On the palm of my hand, on the walls of the hall The roof of the house, right across the land So when the sun comes up tomorrow It’ll look to this side of the hard-bitten planet Like a big yellow button...
