Summary
IHAD been talking to our 13-year-old son about the best balm for chilblains, when an itch of sufficient intensity to have stirred a moan from a fibreglass Buddha erupted on the middle toe of my left foot - causing me to pause for an urgent scratch outside the sandstone wall guarding a perjink garden, where a winter bird was pecking at nuts in the tiny webbed bag left dangling from a pear tree.
And, in nearby houses, the little rock ponds, described as "water features" in those magazines that pander to the swimming-pool dreams and lakeside ambitions of suburbanites, were slowly thawing into sullen colours after the recent cold spell.See the full content of this document
Extract
David Charters
At this time, the parish priest, a comely chap with chuckling blue eyes and a figure that suggested a liking for marzipan dainties and fruit cake, was feverishly revving the modest engin...
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