erastes

(at dad's) Hate not having any connection. It's cloudy and rainy (which is great, because, 3 months with no rain!) but that means no connection at all and it's BORING. And even if I do write, which I will, I'm back in the groove now, I can't check anything, and that's annoying as hell.

Home made chicken curry for lunch. I wish I could find a curry powder that's hotter than the ones available in the supermarkets. I have to add a chilli sauce to get it anywhere near the heat we like. "Madras" it says on the tin, but it's more like Korma for my taste buds. Just a tingle, and nothing else. I should stop be being lazy and make my own curry powder, I always used to do it,mixed up from spices from scratch. I should be able to find the stuff online.

Would you like a Chapter of "I Knew Him"? Hopefully, you do!

Here's chapter two. Any X's within the text are because I haven't decided on that name. Bear with!

Chapter Two

A modicum of introduction is required, then. Let us pretend that these four study rooms on the long wall of the warm-stoned quadrangle are the social venue to which you have been invited—although with the all-pervading smell of academe which even the beeswax cannot subsume—I don't know why you'd accept—and I'll take you around and introduce you to the chaps, those who are worth you meeting, at least. You've already met me, but I suppose I should share some of my credentials. Harry George Alexander Bircham. The Sussex Birchams I'm afraid, not the Norfolk branch. According to family legend, or perhaps wishful thinking, we slipped above the Bircham blanket sometime in the 17th century; a liaison between a younger son and a visiting ladies' maid. It's a nice story, and I'm sure it reassures my family that they are the higher beings in their little village circle, but it's just as likely that our ancestor simply came from Bircham and moved due to some need or other.

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