Last night I discovered a battered old diary in a box in the attic. It was covered in dust and cobwebs, and looked like it had passed through fire and flood. The first half is missing.
Curiously enough, the year at the top of the pages reads 2023. Must be a misprint.
The following are the surviving entries, faithfully recorded by Yours Truly:
(more…)It was half past one on a rainy Thanksgiving morning, and I’d been rudely awakened by an urgent telephone message. “We need your help,” they said, and when my country calls I’m there.
(more…)
The writing’s going well for once, thank God. The writer’s block is gone; the words are flowing. Even better, my wife is staying at her sister’s house tonight; they’ll be having a private Hallowe’en party with her niece tomorrow, and maybe some social-distanced Trick-or-Treating.
Party time in the Age of COVID.
(more…)
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