Cruel blows of fate call for extreme kindness in the family circle.

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.

Stew's so comforting on a rainy day.

The family - that dear octopus from whose tentacles we never quite escape, nor, in our inmost hearts, ever quite wish to.

I should rather like to tear these last pages out of the book. Shall I? No-a journal ought not to cheat.

What is it about the English countryside — why is the beauty so much more than visual? Why does it touch one so?

I know all about the facts of life, and I don't think much of them.