For the past week I’ve woken up every night in a cold sweat. It’s not the thought of bills, chores or work that wake me… it’s my novel.
This wasn’t death-by-selfie which is totally a thing now, but death-near-selfie which is considerably more pedestrian and that’s really saying something.
My first memories belong to the surreal landscape of childhood. Cushioned in tenderness, they flicker a blurred reel of mango trees, mud pies and mosquito screens. Occasionally, through the fuzz, concrete moments come into focus. For me, the first of those is the imprint of a rainy afternoon in a library.
Acres of sand greeted me on the morning I woke in Cebu. Arriving on the midnight flight from Hong Kong, my Filipina host and her German husband had collected me from the airport. For three hours our trinity drove north into darkened jungle. But for the occasional village-party exploding wild by the roadside, the tableaus […]
No matter how fluffy the bathrobe or late the check-out the one drawcard that never fails to entice the final digit of my CVC is a hotel with books.