Like mother, like daughter

ONE OF THE MOST GRIMLY FUNNY POEMS OF the past century is Philip Larkin’s “This Be the Verse,” with its opening salvo about how our parents invariably mess us up. Larkin used a saltier word for “mess,

SARAH DITUM

Are you sure, love? Why not go on a nice holiday with a friend instead?” “Honestly, Mum,” Lucy said, a touch impatiently. “I’m thirty, not a teenager! I want to travel, be on my own for a while. Since

Helen Harris always enjoyed her afternoon tea with Martha Evert, and as she knocked on the door carrying a treat of two chocolate muffins, she looked forward to an hour or two of catching up with her

I always felt like something was missing

SECOND violins, from bar thirty-two – again, please.” Maggie Holloway blinked at the sheet music in front of her, the notes swimming slightly as she adjusted her glasses. Her bow hovered uncertainly a