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It’s what makes us human – but despite the best efforts of philosophy and science, the nature of our experience of reality remains elusive.
It is rather corvid, the ring-neck’s cry – suggestive of an intelligence more knowing than we expect from most birds.
I wouldn’t claim to have an exhaustive familiarity with Bowie’s oeuvre, but then I don’t need to.
Chi-pôte-lay isn’t only frequently mispronounced. It’s also continuously misconceived.
Who knows, if things keep on this way, Britain may well become the sort of country where the outcome of a televised baking competition becomes a matter of high social and political importance.
Guernsey Airport is pretty weird; but then, so is the rest of the island.
Then, upon my return, there it was! A visitation! A miracle! What a joy it is to be alive in Jeremy Corbyn’s Britain.
She is witty, self-deprecating and obviously smart in an offbeat way, so as to neutralise those inclined to dismiss young, working-class women out of hand.
I don’t mind the frisson of fear – without it, I might relapse into Kingoonya altogether.
Not many people realise how strong Buddhism is in contemporary Scotland, or that arguably the reason for this is topographic as much as spiritual.
The only possible course for the ethical meat-eater is to accept that our diet, in common with so many other of our lifestyle choices, is a matter of what we feel comfortable with, and to leave it at that.