This is not going to be one of those annoying posts where I apologise for being away so long, because who really cares? And if I care enough to apologise, wouldn’t I also make the tiny effort to throw in a post here or there? Now we’ve had that reality check, let me just say (for the few people still reading) that I’ve been caring for my little almost-two-year-old while my husband is on a dig in Israel. Basically all my creative energy has been spent entertaining and caring for him / the house / myself.
Now I’ve emerged and I’m reading The Wolves of Willoughby Chase and pondering how those novels from childhood (this one joyfully rediscovered in an op-shop on the weekend) somehow tower above the great novels of our adulthood. The awesome grandeur of War and Peace has nothing on the intimate cosiness and the little thrills of our beloved childhood stories and our remembered invariable response when our parents call ‘lights out’
– ‘Just finish this page!’