Foxgloves (digitalis purpurea) fill me with nostalgia. My mother grew them in her rural Tasmanian garden. ‘Don’t touch them’, she would tell us, ‘they’re poisonous. ‘ Naturally my sister Robbie and I defied her by sticking our fingers into the little ‘gloves’ with a mixture of fear
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WHAT’S IN A NAME? I recently expressed some disquiet over a book title chosen by a fellow member of a writers’ group. He was actually seeking advice on whether to include a blurb on the back cover of his memoir. Perhaps rightly, he was not impressed when
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Harrogate means a whole lot of things, but especially Bettys Bakery and Agatha Christie. My friends call me Miss Marple , so it’s no surprise that I went to Harrogate recently on a pilgrimage to the Old Swan Hotel. Agatha Christie sought refuge here during a personal
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