What can I say..I just love the way Ian McEwan writes, to say the least.
The extent to which he chooses to linger on some moments in the lives/days/hours of his characters is just what I live by when reading him. For some, it may mean 'too much detail' but for others(and me) its just his style.
On Chisel Beach is devastating in a funny way. It touches upon the most uncomfortable parts of the initial few hours in a married couple's life. Be prepared to feel embarrassed and awkward.The vanity and the sarcasm is all very English. The book is short and as intense as Ian McEwan gets.
My rating: 1 of 5 stars
While I usually enjoy reading about teenagers and their tantrums about,in general, everything in life, I wouldn't like to be made to read the banalities associated with them.It was apparently a failed attempt at doing another Catcher In The Rye.I was unable to finish reading it.
My rating: 3 of 5 stars
Being my first R.K.Narayan, I was really curious to know his writing style. The character Daisy was confusing. May be its just me. Otherwise, I enjoyed the nuances and idiosyncracies of Raaman and the way they've been written.
My rating: 2 of 5 stars
The only way I can justify my choice of these books can probably be associated to the in-between-good-books void that makes one restless, almost desperate. Its unimpressive and frivolous that some people call 'light reading'. I would have said it might be interesting for shopaholics,but unfortunately, I strongly believe this book is exageration personified, even in that area.
I gave it ** because the hard paperback(large print) cover was eye-catching.
Read it at your own risk (of being influenced by frivolity).
(This post is my entry for the weekly photo prompt writing forThe Magpie Tales)
She lay on her stomach on the edge of the couch. Staring at the wooden floor, the dark crevices between the tiles, the general pattern and the absence of it. The dust on the floor was clearly visible from that angle. May be she should bend down to that level during her weekly cleaning.It was 6 am on a tuesday morning. She heard the church bells from behind her house. She wondered if the bells rang every day.
It was early for anyone, especially someone who didn't have a job to go to. She and 23 others were given one hour to vacate their desks and surrender their id cards on Monday. By 2PM she was back home with 24 days of valid train pass, a 250gm bar of Kit-kat and no job.
She peeled herself from the couch to make coffee.On her way to the kitchen, she stumbled upon the wooden planks the carpenter left behind yesterday. The large walnut wooden book shelf was almost built. She always wanted the one with those zig-zag asymmetrical shelves. The carpenter was confused with her description of the design but had done a good job of it. She couldn't pay him anymore. With no job and a thin chance of finding another one easily, she needed the savings. The carpenter politely accepted her apologies for withdrawing the contract,though he seriously doubted her capacity to wind up the unfinished job.
The last two planks had to be nailed into the rest of the structure. She found herself sitting on the floor, a 5 feet long wooden shelf in front of her, a hammer on one side and a box of nails on the other. From the half-opened box of nails,she absently took out one nail and held it like a cigarette for a while. She then frantically started hammering the nails into the wood before her. After about 12 minutes, she had nailed "IT GOES ON" on the plank.
As the carpenter had suspected, she never completed the book-shelf.
(This post is my entry for the weekly photo prompt writing forThe Magpie Tales)
By 11 A.M , Lisa, 6 , and Adi , 7, had bathed , eaten and were excited to begin work on their camping plans that were hatched in their room last night. Their mother was happy to oblige them with the old double bed sheet they needed to start. Once out of the back door, into the garden , the kids ran to the spot they had in mind. The mother called out loving warnings of "Don't soil yourselves" and "stay in the shade" and went back indoors to enjoy making lunch in the rarely , hopefully for 2 hours, quiet and peaceful house.
Adi had a rough picture in mind. He had only seen people setting up tents on TV and thought the portion of the rope mother uses to hang wash clothes, directly under the mango tree would be an ideal spot to hang their tent. Before that, the clothes already drying had to be pulled and crumpled in one half of the rope so the bed sheet could be spread on the other. Using the maximum stretch of arms and legs that their little bodies allowed, they succeeded in throwing one half of the bed sheet over the rope to catch it on the other side. Their tent now hung on the rope, with its edges making strange patterns in the mud. Lisa dutifully followed Adi's instructions to tie one corner of the tent to the pole, while he tied the second one to the stem of the lemon tree. The third one was tied to the neck of the tap used to water the lawns. They looked around for a fourth something to tie their tent to. Their sweating bodies already longed to sit in the shade but there was work to be done still.
Adi assured Lisa he'll get a heavy stone that they would tie the corner to, to keep their tent from flying. Meanwhile, Lisa made several trips to the tap, to fill her cupped hands with water and sprinkled it on the ground inside the tent to settle the dust. She loved the smell of wet earth and would always find ways to get it. Adi embarked on his hunt in the wild. He looked all around the huge garden , the kitchen garden for a big stone. Without realizing he crossed over the boundary into Mrs.Sharma's lawn. Owing to the friendly relations between the two families, the break in the boundary hedge was not only deliberate, it saw more traffic than the front doors of the two houses. He spotted a dark colored stone across the lawn on approaching which he realized it was a 1 kilogram iron weight. It was cold to touch and covered with wet soil. He dusted it with his hands and cradled it in his arms to his tent. He tied the fourth end of the tent through the loop of the weight and looked at their sky blue colored camp proudly.
Now he hadn't thought of an agenda after this. He just imagined the setting-up part and didn't know what are they going to do with it now. He saw Lisa struggling to drag the second of the three empty terracotta pots into their tent. She pushed back her pigtail from her temple to explain they'd use them as stools and a table for their tent. Adi was pleased at being provided with a vision again. Once the furniture was placed, they both sat on their stools with the third pot in the center. Adi thought of placing something on the their center table, perhaps food.
They ran to the kitchen garden and forayed into the various soil partitions in their hunt for food. Their shoes were sticky with the freshly watered mud and their mother's latest warnings replayed in their minds. They plucked the small and only bottle gourd, 2 reddish green tomatoes and a dark-green lemon. They then plucked a few coriander leaves, Adi wasn't sure what its called but knew mother used it to make chutney served with poppadoms. Back in their tent, on top of their table, they made a bed of coriander leaves and placed the bottle gourd, the lemon and the tomatoes on top. They looked at the otherwise pleasant sight in dismay. None of their food, they figured could be eaten raw. It was all a failure they thought. None of them said it aloud but in their bored and tired hearts, they both vowed not to mention this camping game for the rest of their summer vacation.
They wanted to go indoors, but having put in so much commitment in the project, none of them took the lead. Just then, they heard the front door bell ring followed by their mother's voice calling them inside. This was their father, home for lunch. The next thing, they were both running towards the back door, never more pleased at being called indoors. Just at the entrance, Lisa stopped and said "Can we ask Mommy to cook something out of our camp food?". They knew then they are going to be back inside the tent tomorrow.
That night, when mother tucked both of them in bed, the lights switched off, Adi wondered if he should have asked Mrs.Sharma before taking the 1 kilo weight from her garden.
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
I didn't have to finish reading the book to rate it a 5 starrer. Shantaram is not just a book its an experience, to say the least.
I does run the risk of sounding lame from the literary point of view, also can be rightly blamed of making the protagonist look like a hero(from a Bollywood movie in some places)in most situations concerning him. As some people point out, perhaps, the character of Lin could have been made more imperfect and more human, I don't see how not doing that has in anyway reduced the significance of the character's experiences.
Besides, being an Indian myself, I acknowledge the fact that while most books written about India by foreign authors stop at romanticizing the poverty, this one has gone beyond and found honesty,intensity and individuality in the people(most of it by being one of them). I respect that.
Considering its a true story, as exaggerated as it might have been, this book is not to be missed!!
Like every Thursday evening, Chloe came out rejuvenated from her yoga class. She bade goodnight to her colleague and the usual promise to see her at work tomorrow.
As she walked towards her car in the parking lot, she was suddenly stuck with a jab of that familiar fragrance. The woody , spicy fragrance she could never forget. She rested her palm on the bonnet of the nearest car for support. The fragrance pierced through her heart. The smell and the associated memories always left her in need of support. For those few moments, wherever she was, the smell blocked her from the world and invoked the familiar dark , cold pain in her chest. She waited for it to pass. Although she was used to it, it always stunned her. She took a few deep breaths trying to gather herself. She could still smell the perfume. Gosh, how popular had this one become.
As she slowly started walking towards her car, she stopped suddenly. It was something about the car she was resting against. She couldn't point out what.She turned to face the car looking for something. Her body still but her eyes frantically scanning the car. Then she saw the matchbox on the dashboard. She inched closer to confirm. Her car keys slipped out of her hand and dropped on the floor with a light jangle. She was sweating and shivering. Thousands of thoughts ran through her mind. It was his car, she knew that much. The perfume that had stuck her was not anyone's but his. The matchbox was his.She recognized it. He always used that matchbox to light his cigarettes and left the half-lit match on top of it. Oh yes, she knew it, she knew him. What she didn't know was what was he doing there, in her city, in the same Mall. The sight left her dazed.
They last met one and a half years ago in Bratislava, where they shared the hotel room for a week. It was a well thought separation. Although, he didn't agree with parting, he knew Chloe was right. They shared between them love , respect, joy and all that two hearts can possibly share. But that was all. Their lives had nothing in common. He dreamt of being a business tycoon one day, his aspirations treading into the unlawful areas. She was sure he would someday charm his way into the heart of the social and business circuit. She was a simple girl with simple aspirations. In the two years that they spent together, she knew all along this was not meant to be but she never got around peeling herself away from him and his life. It was way too painful. She didn't wait for him to kiss her goodbye. She knew she couldn't do it. In the middle of the night, she dressed and slipped out of the room. She flew home, left a note for her flatmate with no details and a lot of money for the rent, and caught the first flight to Paris.
That was it. They never saw or heard from each other again. Standing in the Mall in front of his car, she drew a deep breath and concluded that he still didn't know where she was. They both were in Paris. And in the same Mall, with his car parked 10 meters from hers. All this was only a coincidence.
She walked with heavy steps to her car. Got in, started the engine and took the exit. She knew she wouldn't get any sleep that night. She hunted out the matchbox from her bag, lit her cigarette and left the matchbox on the dashboard. And smiled to herself.
(This post is my entry for the weekly photo prompt writing for The Magpie Tales .)
He was sat on his rocking chair with an open book pressed against his chest. His face couldn't be seen.It was turned the other side, towards the window, the only source of light at that dusky hour.His chair wasn't rocking. Not anymore.
Tina's grandfather was 81 that day when he breathed his last. He was 32 when he with his entire family had to leave everything behind to catch the last train to some place far away from their home. Some place really far away from their riot-inflicted homeland. They never got the chance to collect valuables or farewells. 2 years later, it was still too dangerous to even attempt the return. The tensions had surged and their home was now
in another country.
Tina grew up listening to the stories of her country's 60-year long freedom struggle against the rule of the Raj, and how her grandfather fought in it. All these years,he kept in touch with his friends from the struggle through postcards. Thoughts and memories confined in those 3.5"X 5" pieces of paper.
One such postcard was used as a bookmark in that book he was reading that day on his rocking chair. The postcard talked about a trophy he and his friends won as an arduous victory over a fierce opponent. About how after all these years, whilst the victorious spirit still floats high, the trophy is now corroding. The shine is lost on the withering leaves of memories.
The postcard had arrived 2 days before his chair stopped rocking.
This post is my entry for the weekly photo prompt writing for The Magpie Tales .
I was delighted to have stumbled upon Willow's Blog and her new idea of Magpie Tales which is dedicated to the craft of musing and writing. She would post a photo prompt each week, inspired by which, people can post pieces of fiction , poetry on their own blogs. I have signed up and hope to be able to produce something each week. The first one comes tomorrow , 16th of February, 2010.
Although I knew all along the day isn't far away when it'll be my turn for the dreadful night shift, no length of time can be long enough to prepare for it. The week finally arrived when I am to do night shifts here in London in order to support our teams in Sydney(lets leave the discussion on the rationale behind supporting Sydney from London for a later time). So its 9PM TO 6AM. Right from the word GO the experience is weird.
After waving 'goodnight' to my husband who dropped me to the station so we get to spend ten more minutes together, the wide open ticket barricades were the first sign that it is indeed too late in the day, atleast for the ticket checkers. Well, the good thing is it saved me the effort of having to dig deep into my bag for my train pass. With the trains fewer and the carriages emptier, I was subconsciously getting drawn into a stupor already, or was it just the slow pace of things in general. The large cup of coffee I picked up on the way was of little help except keeping me preoccupied with the bloated stomach it caused all night.
With the best part of my commute on trains, I couldn't help noticing the fact that everything on the opposite side was crowded..the escalators, the platforms and the trains. It was so unusual a sight that I actually clicked a picture of the empty escalator with my phone in a vain attempt to capture the feeling more than the scene. I suspect I fleetingly decided then that being part of the rat race, being on the crowded side of the platform isn't such a bad thing afterall. something seemed fundamentally wrong with the direction of my travel.
Now at the beginning of your work day, what you certainly don't expect is for the 'automatic doors' at the entrance of your office not working automatically, even manually. I stood there looking around for a 'Door jammed.Regret any inconvenience..' board I might have missed. I was then directed to the other side of the building by the lone receptionist from the inside. They kept only one entrance open in the night. I kept looking back at the reception because it looked strange. Just one bored-looking receptionist instead of the 7 feverishly working receptionists in the day time. The stark empty building reception looked uncomfortably huge. I estimated the per capita land at that hour of the day in my office was about 3 floors :)
The walk form the lift to my desk is what I would like to experience every single day.The lights on the entire floor were obviously switched off.But the lights being motion sensing, they kept lighting up as I walked down the aisle. The only thing then missing was the flash lights of the paparazzi :)
My colleague while he was on the night shift last week dozed off for a cat nap. About 15 minutes later, the security woke him up with 'Are you alright sir?' . They said they were instructed to do this to ensure someone isn't genuinely unconscious. I had decided I'd stay awake all night.
There comes a time during the night when you just sit staring at the screen. More specifically at the bottom right corner of the screen where the clock is. Mine ,like most, is in hh:mm format. I wished it was in hh:mm:ss format so I could atleast see the ss part of it moving. Sigh! I don't have administrator rights on the office machine :(
You can't help recalling how at a more usual hour this walk from the desk to the pantry would need you to smile your best smile back to the colleagues you walk past. Although the English politeness ensures your cheeks ache from the prolonged smiling, it was the most desirable thing at the dead of the night.
The isolation that is inevitable in a night shift sure makes one ponderous. However,I am deriving excitement from the fact that I dont need to wait for the weekend or an appoinment for a haircut because 'Madam, we don't expect many customers in the day time on weekdays.Please walk in anytime' :)
A 13-year old becomes pregnant. She is 14 when she delivers a baby, the father of whom is 13. A couple of days after the tabloids overwhelm readers with the pictures of the new born in his teenage father's arms, 2 boys , 13 and 14 years old , come forward to claim fatherhood to the new born. There are, obviously, more than one reasons to feel disgusted here. As would be expected, soon the names,the numbers and even the controversy on the parental linkages disappeared to be taken over by the facts and figures reflecting the rise of teenage pregnancies in the country. At this time, one sincerely hopes for remedial action if not preventive action. One expects the people in authority to arrive at a plan in order to curb if not totally stop the alarming patterns. There is no denying the fact that decisions are indeed being taken. The government of an embarrassed and worried nation with the highest number of teenage pregnancies in the continent does infact take steps.Only they are senseless,to say the least. It decides to take measures wherein , it shall enable school girls , as young as 11 years old , to ask for the morning-after pills merely by texting their school nurse. Wait! Lets not rush our reactions. The government goes a step furthur by allowing the airing of Abortion ads on TV and radio. This with no restriction on the time of the day. As if the government was in the best of moods, the condom ads also are relieved of the prevailing restriction of being aired only after 9 PM. Well, ladies and gentlemen, you may now sigh , frown , shrug or make grimaces at your will. But most of all, do join me to bemoan the evident expiry of maturity and faculty from the institution that apparently has the emotional and physical well being of its children last on its list of concerns. By now, one is too exhausted to even react to the debate that was on furthur down into the daily today. It read 'Should I allow my 3 year old to apply lip gloss'.
I am turning 27 in a fortnight.TWENTY SEVEN! No no no...it isn't what you think.The trauma of having to lie bout my age hasn't set in yet. I can't care less about that really. Infact i DON'T feel that old(or young) at all.Besides the usual 'What have I achieved in life?' , the current anxiousness is about the magnitude, the bigness of the number. This is the age at which people are declared 'nubile'. Since I got married way before this age, I always expected the maturity associated with being marriageable to probably creep in by the time I turn 27. From a distance, 27 appeared to be a time when one finishes the transition from the young and effervescent to sober,sluggish ,ready-yet-dreading-middle-age. But there's nothing I detect.I am as mature(or immature if you will :) ) as I was 2 years ago.Ofcourse, I am much more aware now. But,I am now 'dangerously close' to being 30. There again clueless of what difference should that make.IS there a specific way 27-year olds are expected to behave? Should they stop screaming "YIPEEEE" everytime they are excited,including all the times when the realization of being a proud owner of a pair of "skinny jeans" dawns on them(and just so you know, my average here is twice a day)? Should they turn their attention and energy from trying to get a flat tummy to making babies instead? Is it STILL okay to get totally drunk without worrying about which of your friends will carry you back home? Is it STILL okay to participate in your office's annual dance event with the number of participants more than 26 years old is just...er...1?
Well, it doesen't matter what the answer to all these is because I don't see myself getting moulded anyway.
Turning 27 doesen't hurt really except that I am afraid people might not take me as seriously as my age beckons now. :)
I had started reading Godfather circa 3 years ago. And I loathed it for whatever part of it I managed to read. Yet, determined to read it till the end only to find out why after all is Godfather Godfather, I continued the struggle. Then I left it on a flight and the story was over.
(It just struck me! Before I jot down more, if any of you reading this is a would-be reader/audience of the book/movie, you might not want to read beyond this.)
My biggest argument was why should anyone resort to a life like what Don Corleone almost embraced. So what if he was poor and couldn’t make ends meet with his wife and children depending on him. Then his friends talk(barely had to) him into a job where he had to almost loot trucks at gun-point. And when this local don comes in to ask for his share, our Don goes ahead and shoots him. His prize? he gets to keep the money that the local don had asked for. So is it after all so simple to walkout of the framework of society and law and just STOP following any of the rules set aside for a citizen? Should all men of "spirit" eschew law just as easily as the Sicilian Dons seem to do in the book?
Now after 3 years, I caught hold of the book again and just couldn't resist fighting my unsatiated urge to look for Godfather's reasons. But this time it isn't all that bad, as a reader I mean. I am totally enjoying the reading. I like Don Corleone for the father he is. I like the way his sons have managed while he was shot. I basically like the story this time. I guess 3 years do change one's outlook after all.
However, I am still not convinced with the Don's reasons of having to start all this in the first place. This is disturbing actually. Mainly because I am questioning the story of such a paramount rubric. I want to get convinced. I wish that its something I have missed and that its just not a point of view. I am counting on the final 100 pages of the book. I must pacify my argument, once and for all.
I reckon I dont understand music much. Neither the musician's nor the listener's point of view. Yeah I enjoy tapping a leg often and I can't help swaying when someone plays the guitar or the piano. I also more or less understand the "mood" of the music that falls into my ears. Most of the times,all that I can settle on is to go over my 'favourites' playlist(it has less than 30) over and over again. However, all this is a rarity.In times of emotional upheaval(and this happens more often than I watch TV),I seek peace ,tranquility through music(among other futile attempts like shopping ofcourse). However, even the most awesome pieces make me more solemn. Push me deeper into the doldrums. I figure this is in the history behind them viz. how or where I first heard the song , how the words apply in my life or merely my interpretation of the song. Happy or enlivening instrumentals do no good.
Just when I am about to write off my yet another ordeal with music as inefficacious, I do afterall find what I seek but this in the most improbable bit of music.
Saw my first LIVE match ever!!! Here's a rookie's experience. To begin with, its fun*. Besides the usual players looking like miniature but colorful andanimated chess pieces , there are nice parts too. The experience of Mexican Wave, or the human wave if you will, is phenomenol. The boundaries are adrenaline pumping and the food is pathetic. My advice to other first-timers (.) Although "outside food is not allowed", either sneak in some sandwiches or stuff yourself to be good for 4 hours (I only advice Twenty20 cricket. Did I forget to mention it was 'Cricket'??) (.) Do NOT undermine or miss the Mexican wave. Its more important than the victory of the team you are supporting. (.) Support ONE team. (.) Carefully choose the color of your Tee. You don't want to be mistaken as a supporter of your least favourite team. (.) Sun shades, caps/hats are essential if its a day match. Mine was in the night and so much better. (.) CHEER (p.s Fun = Not Boring)
Everytime I listen to it, I can't help but imagine myself dressed in all black...the little black dress , the black strappy heels , a dash of Poison under my earlobes and this big diamond solitaire, on this boat sailing across the Hudson river. The moonlight hobnobs with the glittering night skyline of New York on one side of the river. The spotlight is obviously on me. The only table on the deck is laid with red french wine and pasta. Its all white on the boat. The furniture , the floor , the railing and the uniform of the waiters. He , however, is dressed in a black tuxedo. I know he's done all this only for me. He extends his hand.."Shall We?". I accept. Afterall, I know its my one chance to live my age old fantasy. Its non-putdownable. And we dance the hours away.'Lady Hear Me Tonight" never stopped playing and he never stopped looking into my eyes , as if he meant every word of the song. I dont want to be sure.
For now, Song of the day "Lady Hear Me Tonight". Beware, it can also become the song of the week, for the 100th time that is. I can't help it deary.
I am sick of this now. Why can't people just SAY what they THINK. Why do they ALWAYS have to encrypt their thoughts...and leave the onus of deciphering them to the poor soul on the other end of the communication. Alright, I do recognize the occasions when one so cannot be straightforward. However, I can't justify the others. For now, I am taking revenge from my team lead who made me work on the staurday with his "We have to deliver this on Monday" when he himself wasn't prepared for the delivery. Yeah its Monday today and we are 3 good hours past the stipulated time of delivery. Since I just didn't want to work...I ended up visiting my blog after about 10 months. Not that I hadn't visited it, I always returned without being able to find somthing "mentionable" enough. I am sick of this too...the unsatiable urge to write without the content to accompany it. Hooked on http://belledejour-uk.blogspot.com these days. Her honesty intrigues me. Alas, a relief from the coded world. So, for now its buh-bye encryption.
People have spent their lives preaching it.Some have written books trying to convey the message. The words of some have found their way to the "Quote of the day" on international message boards.In one way or the other,they all tell you to "Follow your heart".This gibberish only provides the ever faltering psyche of the modern day human being with the quinessential push to "listen to their hearts".The heart seems to say beautiful and fantastic things.Gives you your private dream world and an illusion where all those dreams seem to be turning true someday.This indeed seems to be working for many.Not for me my friend.I have been there,done that.And realized how important it is NOT to listen to the stupid heart.The proverbial heart is in fact a kaleidoscope of confused,arbitrary,sometimes intense,cluttered and almost always cataclysmic object of emotions(ah!how much we love using that word!!), a Pandora's box...all that comes out of it spells "HAVOC".At the end of it all, I can't be thankful enough for having a "mind"..Afterall, there has to be something to balance out the perpetual upheavel of the heart.
Its rather unbelieveable how,even in today's world where all one is interested in is himself, there exist the likes of the inhabitants of this small "universal township" called Auroville, near Puducherry in South India. This was an idea of Mirra Alfassa, known as "The Mother", who organized the followers of Sri Aurobindo into the Sri Aurobindo Ashram. the idea was later accepted by UNESCO.The inhabitants include nationals of 32 odd countries across the globe. Their stated purpose is "to realize human unity in diversity". They are foresters, mediatators and workers. Among other activities, they make hand-made paper and incense sticks and commute by bi-cycles. Interesting huh? Yes it is. My point is, who are these men and women? Which segments of societies do they hail from? They have left behind their families, friends and careers to spend a lifetime among people from different countries, different political and social views, different religions and beliefs. What happens to their aspirations for life, their aptitude for sports? Or is it that they never had any. Perhaps, these recluses have found the answer to their aspirations on that land confined within a few hundred acres of land. No matter how quixotic the idea may appear at the first glance, they, afterall, are 2000 odd people who have made Auroville their way of life. Kudos!
Its one of those days when the realization that I am stuck in an absolutely wrong place, doing everything i never wanted to do, takes over everything else...I am 26 years old and still wondering what i REALLY want to do with the rest of my years..What is it that's meant for me...what in this world of mortals is that I would LOVE to do...How many miles must a man walk before he knows where he wants to go? Or is it that I must walk and walk and suddenly one day I shall stumble upon something that's "God Sent" or "Just right" for me? As if I have a choice, sigh!
To dare every day to be irreverent and bold. To dare to preserve the randomness of mind which in children produces strange and wonderful new thoughts and forms. To continually scramble the familiar and bring the old into new juxtaposition.
—Gordon Webber
I enjoy knitting stories through writing and photography is my latest infatuation. Exasperatingly crabby,indulgent,bewildered, random.Gradually metamorphosing into who I love being, lustful about books, perfumes, cakes and travel. Expect to stumble upon some short stories and book-reviews here.
On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan
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