Today I decided to make myself a tea tray and go back to bed to read. I'd made a batch of scones so they were at the ready, and I put the water on to a rolling boil and set out a tea tray for myself. A while ago I finished reading "The Gulag Archipelago" which reduced me to ashes. Now I am reading Dostoevsky 'The Brothers Karamazov' and as I sat at the side of my bed munching on scones (I had two pieces; oh my!) and sipping my second cup of tea, I found myself wiping away the stream of tears that were falling down my cheeks. I am so apprehensive about a 9-year old boy (one of the characters) I am fearful may die. Gosh those Russian writers know their craft.
Well now it is now on to the daily things...
