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Wednesday, 11 July 2007


Teresa - what a lovely story - at first! I thought it was a fairy tale, and then it turned out to be a horror story! But thank you for sharing it with us - and find some good trees soon!

Hello, I have just started reading your journal having 'popped' over from Cornflower's site. I am usually cheered up by reading journals but this morning you have reminded me of the poplar tree between my house and next door. This tree was blown over in the '87 storm and regenerated itself, sending up four new 'trees' from its prone trunk. These were enormous and the leaves made a wonderful, soothing rustling sound. The light and shadows danced in my sitting room and provided privacy both upstairs and down. I can barely go on, this year they were cut down because the Insurers of our property said that they had caused cracks in our house. I'd rather have the company of those trees than the sight of the house next door but thankfully the rest of the garden is surrounded by wild trees. Still I'm grateful that I am reminded to enjoy the memory of those tree/branches thanks to the post on this journal.

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  • Nothing is of greater consolation to the author of a novel than the disovery of readings he had not conceived but which are then prompted by his readers. (Umberto Eco, Reflections on The Name of the Rose)
  • ... relatively few persons in London ... can afford the luxury of one or more servants. No fewer than 3,700,000 have no servants at all, and of the half million that have servants 227,000 have only one. (The Times, 6 June 1895)
  • Standing among savage scenery, the hotel offers stupendous revelations. There is a French widow in every bedroom, affording delightful prospects. (Tyrolean inn brochure, according to Gerard Hoffnung)
  • (A doctor is at an elderly relative's deathbed) "The old sawbones, eh?" he bellowed ... "Just in the nick, perhaps. Haul the old girl back by the short hairs, if you ask me. Devilish smart at his work ... Always take a fence with more confidence when I know he's out with us."
  • Too often, when a man of Monty Godkin's mental powers is plunged in thought, nothing happens at all. The machinery just whirs for a while, and that is the end of it. (P G Wodehouse, Heavy Weather)
  • ...the breed that take their pleasures as Saint Laurence took his grid (Kipling, The Five nations)

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