When I first heard it, Girasole Sunflower, the Italian word I formed an instant picture Girare to turn, sole in the sun. How aptly named The flower that turns heads And in turn, turns itself In the lazy heat of the day. How could you not notice? Field after field of…
Ghost train
I am not a man who is easily frightened. To be more precise, I have never been someone who suffers from classical phobias so have no concerns about being in open or closed spaces, nor am I made anxious by being in the company of spiders or mice. I don't get worried by dreamed-up fears,…
In wonderland
It is usually dangerous to make generalisations but here we go - Canadians are nice. What draws me to this position? On my first trip five months ago I discovered that when it comes to matters of taste, there are many people in Canada who have an endearing quirkiness, as I described in July [A…
Song for Methuselah
When I sit in my eyrie and note in my diary “Eighty three years --and not quitting..” I am not courting fame nor yet fulsome acclaim (Though a grain of respect might be fitting) But alas, now and then I encounter young men Who, on staring askance at my eyrie, Dismiss me as musty and…
Magic well
Joe Collier discovers lost well in garden. Authorities now looking into it. Last week I sat twiddling my thumbs. I had planned several summer projects but all had been thwarted. Finally, my wife suggested that if I had nothing better to do, why not look for the well in the front garden. We learned of…
Losing the plot
Compared to moving house or getting a divorce, losing one's allotment is way down on the major life-event scale. But nevertheless it is sad and is happening to us. Plot 8 has been ours since 1994, and in November we will stop paying our subs to the Management Committee and will hand back the key…
The cake shop and the milliner
After twenty minutes and as many Canadian dollars, my hat, more specifically my hat band, was again in pristine condition. And the change was the unlikely outcome of a chance meeting, a smidgeon of alacrity, and the work of a true professional. I have worn hats for years. The habit started in the 80s when,…
Dreaming spires
Leaving the dock behind us, We sped out into the Venice lagoon. The airport receded. I picture you perched in the back of the water taxi in a dappled patch of sunshine, trying to keep your hair from flying. The Russian girl (she said her name was Alexandra) all in black, let hers go with…