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“It’s Saturday, It’s Lemons Day” was a sponsored programme on Radio Eirann when I was a child. I think it promoted sherbet lemons, a nourishing boiled sweet.

I plucked this slim vol of shorters to read on a train because it fitted into a pocket of my top coat.

Only one chick hatched this year (again) and is thriving; just twelve days old and growing like Topsy.

221B Baker Street “Watson, I fancy we have a client. Thank you, Mrs Hudson, show him up.

With Best Wishes for Christmas and the New Year.    

Virginia Cowles writes affectionately about the Spaniards she met in this warts and all extract from Looking for Trouble.

There has been a paucity of posts recently. To make amends, a plentitude of pooches.

I lunched with Mary Bartlett at the Étoile. She showed me the tongue motion that women make when they are cleaning lipstick off their front teeth and I feel that I have gained a valuable piece of information. (The Siren Years, Charles Ritchie) In our house, we sometimes look at our belongings and remind ourselves:… Continue reading September Gleanings

The BBC has been challenged this year.

It’s hard to know where to start. It’s gratifying when Bertie eliminates something solid close to a bin. It is less pleasing when I climb thirty-six stairs to bed with a PG Wodehouse and find I read Spring Fever recently.