·
All is quiet in the Annie M.G. Schmidt theatre. No small achievement considering there are forty small kids packed into the small space. But the tiny faces sitting on their red cushions are already rapt and filled with wonder. Before us the authors and illustrators Dieter and Ingrid Schubert are getting ready to present their
·
June feels more like November. I’m drenched after walking the dog and to make matters worse I have a hairdressers appointment. Anyone that knows me will understand this last point. Getting me into a salon is no easy matter. Getting me into a salon when I’m bedraggled and battered and all scruffed up should be
·
Sunday afternoon and the sky is overcast and threatening. July, and the rain is going to pour again for yet another day. But I’m restless. All this weather imposed containment, in the middle of summer, makes me jittery. To hell with the elements. I need to get out. I need to run. Anyone who runs
·
She only ever plays a few notes. The sounds so small and weak you have to stop and concentrate to hear them. But most people simply walk on by. Amid the hubub of the street, her music goes unheard, drowned out by the incessant din of life. Sometimes you’ll catch a passerby throwing a glance
·
I’m peddling along the Prinsengracht, late in the afternoon. Dawdling really, because it’s a go slow kind of day, because it’s warm and the trees are green and the tourists are out and about again, mulling around outside the Anne Frank House, and not looking where they’re going. Which always makes me laugh for some
