My husband would say my signature dish is pasta with a tin of tuna plonked on top. So, no. Although I make a good bangers and mash. I have been known to stick cocktail umbrellas in it, take a photo and send it to James upstairs with a text saying, 'Your food's ready'.
It is not surprising that prayer malfunctions when we try to make it a domestic intercom to call upstairs for more comforts in the den.
It is the earliest dream that I can remember, earlier than the witch at the corner of the nursery passage, this dream of something outside that has got to come in. The witch, like the masked dancers, has form, but this is simply power, a force exerted on a door, an influence that drifted after me upstairs and pressed against windows.
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