when one doesn't have anything nice to say, it's best not to say anything at all. apparently.
these days it isn't that i can't think of anything nice to say (quite the contrary) but blogging feels like a chore. so i shan't worry myself, but instead offer a little peep at some nice things, which may or may not interest, but what the heck.
and my (and everyone else's) absolute favourite rereads:
and gorgeous wee stories like this one:
if only for tales that start like this:
"once upon a time milly-molly-mandy was going for a picnic.
it was a real, proper picnic. father and mother and uncle and aunty were all going too, and little-friend-susan and billy blunt (because it wouldn't seem quite like a real, proper picnic without little-friend-susan and billy blunt).
they were going to take the red bus from the cross-roads to a specially nice picnic place, where milly-molly-mandy hadn't ever been before because it was quite a long way off. (the nicest places often do seem to be a long way off, somehow.)"
and that include the little gang of picnickers tidying up the picnic ground, which had been ruined by terrible litterbugs, because "mother said: 'i think a place ought to look nicer because we've been there, not nastier!'"
also, i joined twitter and it makes me feel kinda dirty (but can't stop), so i'm taking refuge in worlds where tweets only happen between birds.
*a confederacy of dunces, john kennedy toole. tess of the d'urbervilles, thomas hardy (damn you angel!). little women and good wives, louisa may alcott. selected poems, ee cummings. the heart is a lonely hunter, carson mccullers. for esme with love and squalor, jd salinger. jane eyre and wuthering heights, charlotte bronte and emily bronte. the secret garden, frances hodgson burnett.