I have left my last placement, journey to family yesterday afternoon would have been much longer if Barry hadn't met me half-way, thereby saving me two trains and a tram! And even my last train I jumped 'ship' at Coventry, my tickets wouldn't open the barrier.. Like they knew!

Four weeks is a long time, and now I can relax, and sleep without keeping one ear open!

I also haven't read a single word of a book for four weeks, so I've begun a good one today..

Reading Diane Setterfield's The Thirteenth Tale 

These are two paragraphs..

People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. All living memory of them ceases. This is both dreadful and natural. Yet for some there is an exception to this annihilation. For in the books they write they continue to exist.

°°°

Do they sense it, these dead writers, when their books are read? Does a pinprick of light appear in their darkness? Is their soul stirred by the feather touch of another mind reading theirs? I do hope so. For it must be very lonely being dead.

No way thinking myself better than the indi author that I am, but I like this thought; and this year now sold six books about my stepdad, so I am very happy with that!

TTFN

Marian