Author: Lyndsey Skinner
The telephone purrs ominously in my hand. I swirl the last dregs of lukewarm coffee at the bottom of the cup while sitting cross-legged on my desk chair, and stare at the pile of press releases and hand-written notes in scratchy blue biro on my desk.Read the full story..
‘Of course the same thing happened to Keats, you know.’Read the full story..
“I’m going to The Herb Garden on Wednesday,” I said to a friend. “Oh,” she replied, “I’ve been past there a few times. It’s the one with the rollerskating horse in the doorway, isn’t it?”Read the full story..
On a relentlessly grey, damp and oppressive Tuesday afternoon on Newcastle’s Thornton Street, Jeremy Corbyn took to a makeshift stage to address the crowds in hats and waterproofs who had gathered there to listen to him.Read the full story..
Some children respond to the question “what would you like to be when you grow up?” in outlandish ways.Read the full story..
If, as Oscar Wilde once said, “a little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal”, then Noel Coward’s delightfully flippant Hay Fever stays well away from the danger zone.Read the full story..
It was on a camping holiday with friends in Loch Lomond and the Trossachs that I encountered the worst meal I’ve ever had.Read the full story..
Years of consuming art in its different forms – seeing plays, reading novels, listening to music and watching films – has left me with a profound fear of the institution of marriage.Read the full story..
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Spotted in Manchester's Northern Quarter. (photo by RM) pic.twitter.com/FcFSbbvtZ9