Hard to admit (but I was far too young, honestly...)

Two dangling clauses.

Does this scene look autumnal enough to justify the purchase from this convenient stall of an artisan baked bread roll containing some suckling pig, with crackling still attached?

Remember: silence = assent.

Hard not to feel affection for a place that devotes three whole days each year to the festive consumption of frogs.

Unless you're a frog, of course.

Festive reflections in a steampunk nativity scene (although you can't really see the old TV set it's rather neatly occupying. Have faith, it's there).

According to my husband this bears more than a passing resemblance to the author of this post. I have no idea why and I'm far too hungry to think about it at the moment.

There are cherubs...

...and there are cherubs.

Bit of a breeze in Rome this afternoon... I'm sure there's an appropriate quote but I'm damned if I can remember it.

I love the crazy juxtapositions created by alphabetic ordering. Barbara Pym, meet James Purdy. Beatrix? I'd like to introduce you to Marcel.

Olivetti Prodest. Compatible with nothing. The memory of a drunken flea.

Would you buy a book from this rabbit?

The Hairdresser's Son by Gerbrand Bakker, a brilliant novel by one of my favourite authors, and one that deserves a lot more attention than it's received so far. Highly recommended.

PS His earlier novel, The Twin, is also absolutely heart-wrenchingly wonderful.

A little urban night scene for you all

Burt Lancaster in glasses, because why not?