検索キーワード： 著者 "Rosalie Parker" すべてのカテゴリー

Finding a suitable father for your babies is a haphazard business; there are usually several false starts before you fall in love, move in, get married. If you're lucky, children follow swiftly. Then, without warning, you discover that your husband has done something that hurts you to the quick, destroys your spirit, sears your soul.

She assessed the damage. The coffee-stained duvet, charred by cigarette burns, was stuffed in the wardrobe. Ranged around the rubbish bin were several empty beer bottles lying on their sides. Unrinsed mugs and glasses stood everywhere and damp towels had been dumped on the couch.

I've seen you with the others, your little machine capturing their words, and now, it seems, you have come to me. They say you're a professor and must, therefore, despite your youth, be wise, so I suppose I should do my best to lay aside my misgivings and put my trust in you.

I'd done a bit of acting at school Professor Henry Higgins in My Fair Lady, and King Duncan in the Scottish Play, that sort of thing - so it wasn't much of a surprise to anyone when I joined the Ledlaw Amateur Dramatic Society (LADS).

I've laid down my plastic under-sheet but it doesn't stop the chill from leaching through my sleeping bag. At least it's sheltered here, the doorway set back from the pavement. My hat gapes on the ground, but the punters are in too much of a hurry to get home to stop and fish out their change.

I said something silly, I forget what. He smiled, shook his head and whispered, 'Don't ever change'. I was charmed, even though part of me knew it was a cliché, and, if I was honest, a little bit patronising.

School and first went into the business, my grandfather, who had retired by then, told me about how chimney sweeps are regarded as good luck, and maybe more than that to some of the female customers, but he said that I should always treat everyone with respect.

The incoming tide nudged gently at the line of seaweed and broken shells. Her eyes were on the horizon, her bare toes dug into the sand.

People like an open fire, if they can be bothered with all the work it entails - cleaning out the grate, scrunching up newspaper, laying the kindling, fetching in the fuel. All that effort is worth it to sit and watch the flames dancing, to feel the real heat warm you through.

Beth wrapped the bread and cheese back in their papers and tied the parcel into her bundle. It was proper harvest weather; the afternoon sun roasting, the sky a faultless blue.

What you have to understand, before I begin, is that I am not a gullible person. I am a scientist of a sort, an archaeologist, trained in the empirical ethos of the British higher education system.

I first came across the boy in the supermarket; he was eating an apple from the pile. I said 'You are supposed to pay for that,' and then realised what a killjoy that made me.

The 'Wetland Watch' had been widely advertised, so Jack was surprised when only four people came. He had spent the morning sweeping out the hide before going on his rounds and couldn't help but feel a small stab of disappointment at the low turn-out.

I first came across the boy in the supermarket; he was eating an apple from the pile. I said 'You are supposed to pay for that,' and then realised what a killjoy that made me.

There are times in life when something affects you deeply and alters the way you look at the world.

The wind-whipped grass rippled in the field. Spring had come early, the sunshine and showers producing a tall, healthy crop. Tomorrow, all this luscious ripeness was to be mown and gathered, stored and fed over the coming year to the captive cows in their perpetually lit sheds. It would be the first cut of the season.

A mutual acquaintance of ours suggested I should write to you. She is a volunteer librarian in your establishment whom you will know. She took special note of you because you borrow more books than any other inmate, and it occurred to her that you might appreciate a correspondent who had time to write you a proper letter.

You've been visiting for some time and I've made very little effort to communicate. I have nothing against you - you are well turned out in your skirt and twin-set, your hair in its careful bun. I cannot fault your appearance; you seem the right sort: clean, punctual, intelligent. Even your persistence is commendable.

The message is hand written on a scrap of paper stuffed in an envelope. It reads: 'Are you blind to the truth?' I study the shaky capitals, attempting to winkle out some clue about the sender, then I stow it in the filing drawer with the others. The messages are delivered when I'm out. They lie on the doormat waiting for me in their cheap manila envelopes, the flap tucked in rather than stuck down.

I'm not unique; there are hundreds like me, and others who lost limbs or were killed outright. No matter how alert you were, it could happen at any time. Suicide bombers and improvised explosive devices were almost as common as the flies that continually plagued us.