Wednesday, 16 December 2015


There’s something wrong with my phone. It keeps receiving calls from long-dead friends. From mythical figures. From assassinated presidents. In the middle of the night Odysseus calls – sobbing and lost. I comfort him. Assure him he will find his way home. This lunchtime I took a call from Emily Bronte, who ranted and raved until I had to hang up. It is fascinating, of course, but the ghosts are too many. I take the battery out whenever I wish to sleep, and let their calls go unanswered – just as they always have.

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