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Saturday, January 23, 2010

Sleeping with John Updike

"On the first anniversary of the American novelist's death, a new short story by Julian Barnes"

Tuesday, January 05, 2010

Sloe wine

When I was a child I had not time for filling forms or folding clothes. No minute could be spared from catching bees and huling hoops. I raced like upland rills and brooks that bubble and chase their own reflections. But now I have nothing but time, time to fill forms and stare at the box. Time to fold clothes and make arrangements. What time is it now Mr Wolf? I must have known that childhood was ending - that's why I raced everywhere, that's why I ran and ran and ran.