An unusual bed...

...for Fran, with novels by Douglas Coupland, Salman Rushdie and Terry Pratchett just a paw's stretch away.

In Memoriam

Walking around Beverley yesterday, I was shocked to discover that John Hillman, the butcher who ran Ye Olde Pork Shoppe, had died. I didn't know him very well at all but I liked him: the way he didn't say much; the way he had supreme confidence in the meat he sold; and the way he always seemed to mistake me for someone else whom he'd been keeping things aside for.

The longest conversation I ever had with John was about forerib and how nice it was. It was a short conversation, just a few quiet grunts, a few nods, and a universe of enthusiasm.

So thanks for all the beef, John. And thanks for letting me in on the joy of pig tails.

Jane Brocket's The Gentle Art of Domesticity

We came back from town today with an absolute treasure of a book, Jane Brocket's (a.k.a. Yarnstorm) The Gentle Art of Domesticity, brimful with lovely things to make, eat, read and hibernate in, and all lovingly illustrated with her own photographs (taken with a "magic sensor" Fuji F30) to boot. The afternoon, with its warm, autumnal light, its freshly-brewed coffee and its box of yesterday-baked Yarnstorm flapjacks, seemed a perfect time for sitting in the garden and having a thorough read of this much-anticipated book. But Susie, after duly reminding us of the differences between domesticity and domestication (briefly delineated in the introduction of the book), had other ideas, mainly revolving around cat food.

Rejoice with me!

For I have found the coin...

My very first royalties cheque arrived in the post this week, to the sum of only a rather modest amount, to be sure, but it had an Author Code, and a breakdown of UK/Export Sales, and all sorts of interesting ledger information which made it almost as interesting as if it'd been for a gazillion pounds. While it's not made me a rich little dog, it has made me feel warm, fuzzy and writerly inside, which is nice.