People always think the fun has to stop when you get old. Well it doesn’t
apocrypha, with tales of Mithras and Baldur the Beautiful and Osiris and Quetzalcoatl all interwoven
candyfloss as the few comers approached, collars turned against the fog, to collect absolution.
lenient. That is why, once a week, I allow myself this one indulgence. Your mouth is as closely sealed, mon
”
It must be our clothes. In this garish land the people are drab. Colour is a luxury; it wears badly. The bright blossoms of the roadside are weeds, invasive, useless.
A single dandelions seed, mon pere, would be enough to bring them back. You know that as well as I. And if she is that seed…
skirts the corner of the church
marrons glaces, amourettes and filigree nests filled with petits fours and caramels and a thousand and one
weft-warp of our itinerary
And the children… Chocolate curls, white buttons with coloured vermicelli, pains d’epices with gilded edging, marzipan fruits in their nests of ruffled paper, peanut brittle, clusters, cracknels, assorted misshapes in half-kilo boxes… I sell dreams, small comforts, sweet harmless temptations to bring down a multitude of saints crash-crash-crashing amongst the hazels and