don't confuse the narrator

on the edge of memory

A few days ago, I read a poem by a friend which reminded me of a short story. Sadly, I can’t remember who wrote it: it might have been Saki; perhaps it was Wilde; there’s a very slight chance it was Lovecraft. (I’m fairly sure it was unlike most of the other stories I know by the same author.)

I’m a long way from my own bookshelves, so after racking my brains unsuccessfully, I have had to resort to trying to find the story via the web.

I think the scene was a domestic drawing-room as the afternoon slips towards dusk.

I half remember beautiful scenery, or it might have been the view of a garden through French windows; it could even have been potted plants, I suppose, though I think they would have been perfumed, not simply aspidistras.

There was music; probably celestial, though it might have been a piano. There was a dreamer and a dream, perhaps of classical gods; a promise of immortality, or of life in a different dimension…
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kennels & cottages

Well, they are clearly cottages not kennels, but they are in Kenilworth – in the heart of England – and I thought they were worth taking pictures of.
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snowdrops

It’s half a lifetime since I spent so long in the UK at this time of year, and I’m revelling in the early signs of spring.

(The real natural signs, that is, not forced daffodils that have been in the shops since before Christmas, nor the bargain strawberries imported from Spain, however fresh and sweet they are.)

Now the local daffs are promising and will soon be brightening all the gardens, motorway verges and railway embankments. (I imagine a great golden wave that starts in the south west and works its way slowly up to the far north of Scotland.)

For the moment, though, there are snowdrops; more, perhaps, than I have ever seen in my life. I’m currently learning to use a new camera, so there will probably be more snowdrop photos than ever before, too.