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Again, if e’er she walks abroad, Of course you bring some wicked lord, Who with three ruffians snaps his prey, And to a castle speeds away; There, close confined in haunted tower, You leave your captive in his power, Till dead with horror and dismay, She scales the walls and flies away. (Mary Alcock, ‘A Receipt for Writing a Novel’ in Poems […]
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Last week my fifteen year old son wrote a short piece of fiction, entitled ‘Thursday’, that reflected on how strangely anonymous the days become when we are cast away, or imprisoned, or quarantined. What kind of identity does Thursday have, it asked, as opposed, say, to Saturday, when the structure of living has been suspended, when we cast off the clothing of the days to […]
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