dispatches
Not having sent out a newsletter in too long has been nagging at me like a fly against a windowpane. Perhaps its for this reason that illustrator/author’s latest missive (her 200th!) struck a particular chord: I send a text message to someone saying that I’m trying to
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A swansong swim at Miller's Point.
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Read "Middlemarch"?
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A lesson in impermanence
RIP, Dad.
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And other attempts at staying sane.
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In addition to seeing old friends and revisiting beloved places, another wondrous thing about returning to South Africa was being able to retrieve numerous prints I’ve collected over the years. It has been a joyous reunion indeed — after all, when it comes to transforming a house into a home,
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A postcard from Cape Town.
A very different kind of cocktail hour in Kyiv.
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On channelling one's inner feline (and stuffing your face)
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When winter has come.
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Clambering onto rocket launchers, and the rusting wings of Sukhoi fighter jets. Scrambling through dimly lit tunnels. Jumping on the heavy metal lid of a missile silo. Pressing *the* button in the control room a dozen storeys below ground — yes, the one that, until it was decommissioned, would’ve launched