It was part way through a bowl of shahi paneer at a local restaurant that I remembered Mr Ramesh. There was something about the chef that brought my old tutor back to me from a half-buried past.
Not the Fruits Thereof

It was part way through a bowl of shahi paneer at a local restaurant that I remembered Mr Ramesh. There was something about the chef that brought my old tutor back to me from a half-buried past.
I’ve always found the scent of freshly sawn timber intoxicating. There’s nothing like the grain of wood as it’s revealed in the cutting, shaving or sanding – a private journal of all its years and seasons.
On July 24th 2015, Ashprihanal Aalto completed the Self-Transcendence 3100-Mile Race in 40 days, 9 hours and 6 minutes. That’s an average of around 76 miles a day for 40 days straight, on a concrete pavement in Queens, New York.
“Sumangali Morhall’s Auspicious Good Fortune details one woman’s spiritual awakening in beautiful, lyrical prose that sometimes reads like poetry.”
All 38 parts of Sri Chinmoy answers have recently been published in two hard-cover volumes. They are beautifully compiled and typeset.
Had you said the name Portishead to me 20 years ago I’d have instantly thought of the band. Now I think of stopwatches and swim caps.
Having had a bit of a grumble lately about saints not showing their human side, I was reminded of Saint Julian the Hospitaller, as described by Flaubert.
Were I to set more store by the zodiac, I’d blame it on a Cancerian date of birth. Perhaps it has more to do with past-life experience, or maybe it’s just one of those things.
I found the following video refreshing. It raises many valid points, and asks interesting questions, though actually I would answer them differently to the way intended.
Do you remember believing that adults know everything? One believes a lot of silly things as a child, and perhaps a lot of sensible things that ought to be remembered.
A boat was rented for an afternoon
to show us the surrounding isles,
cutting through glassy Adriatic blue,
inviting us to villages of white stone houses
shuttered blind in hibernation.
York is a wizened little city, halfway from London to Edinburgh. Tourists come by their busload between the two, alighting for a day here, taking high tea, snapping group portraits against medieval backdrops.