“Every secret of a writer’s soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind, is written large in his works.”

Virginia Woolf

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I’ve been thinking a lot about memory lately. About how it works, how it changes, what it means in the shape of our lives and how we see ourselves. I’ve always spent a lot of time in my own distant past. I say ‘always’, but it probably only dates from when my mother died, so from when I was fourteen. Because of that, I have memories from before then which are highly polished, burnished even; treasured. I have visited them often and I suspect that with each repetition, they alter just a little, until they take on a sort of mythical quality.

 Try to Remember

Last week, I started writing a blog entry on the subject of my love-hate relationship with travel. I’m sure this it’s common among sufferers of anxiety; I love to visit different, new places, but generally I find the process of preparation and getting there a trial. I doubt many anxious people do enjoy it – there’s so much to worry about.A Journey in my Head

All previous blog entries are to be found on this page: Thoughts, Scribblings…

Lorenzo lobbying our friend Liz for some of her ice cream – unsuccessfully
Don’t you just LOVE Alpacas???

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