Can we talk about small things for a moment? About the impossibly sweet and nostalgic accoutrements of childhood. A little blue cardigan hanging from a big hallway hook. Miniature shoes lined in tidy little rows. Small, pudgy hands clutching smaller, balding Sylvanian rabbits, who in turn hold impossibly tiny jugs and teapots and cakes. Most days I am immune
I was raised on a diet of homemade cake & gingerbeer. Not literally, you understand, but of the literary sort – hours spent gorging on books by Enid Blyton and Arthur Ransome. The Famous Five, Swallows & Amazons. A head full of island adventures in rolling British countryside, even as my body lay in quiet,
A strange sadness, to leave the house Orla knows so well. She’s splashed in this bath since her very first week; she knows which wobbly floorboards to skip, as she leads my by the hand to bed. She knows where the raisins are kept, and the way to the park, and the best windows to