Weather the storm

CAROL McGIFFIN

I WAS browsing the bookshelf in a charity shop when I glanced up to see my neighbour outside, trying to come in. With his arms fully encumbered with a large bag, the door was proving difficult to open

NOTHING said “home” like the kitchen of Nant-y-Bri Farm at breakfast time. Delicious frying pan smells hung heavy in the air and the scrape of cutlery on willow pattern plates indicated the family had

Elspeth wanted to get back to her old self – but was she brave enough?

January had seemed to last forever. The razzle dazzle of Christmas a mere memory, spring and its promise of sunny days still a good couple of months away. And now there was February to contend with. S

IT’S perfect,” I said. “Just think of all the time I’ll save on commuting. I’ll even be able to come home for lunch if I want to.” Mum didn’t look convinced. Of course, she was pleased that I’d found