the writer is a lonely hunter

Fiona paces the kitchen, keeping her feet inside the flagstone squares, then she stops and stares through the French windows into the garden. The flowerbeds are bedraggled, the winter frost has killed off any growth and only the potted Christmas tree, discarded on the patio, sprouts a few green needles. Sitting at the kitchen table, Liz snorts at the photographs of fashion mishaps in a magazine. Read the rest of this entry »