Autumn in the Hedge

Also, honourable mention, and a silver star, for the Evil Vicar who sent me a note last night yesterday some day recently from a really far-away time zone:

How did you know that we all wanted to live in the Brambly Hedge books? I did once have a source for them. Let me see if I can dig it up again.

But only silver because I do seem to recall a similar promise regarding a certain Young Fogey's Handbook, that never materialised.

I'm still trying to find an online copy of the Brambly Hedge picture I have framed in my apartment. My cold, marble-floored Italian apartment. Not a lot of gingham or tiny floral pattern stuff in this country.

The picture is of the place I hope to wake up in when I've breathed my last. It is of a large room in one of the Brambly Hedge houses, a four poster bed, tea under the cozy steaming from the spout, toast in the toast rack, sun streaming in past the fireplace. My archetypal vision of home.

I've never really been all that keen on heaven, at least not as it is usually depicted. I don't think the Glorious Amazing Magnificalness of the Heavenly Hosts praising God in his Glorious Amazing Wonderfulness really does it for me.

I'm more a feet up by the fireplace with a good book sort of person. With maybe a daily walk through the heavenly version of the Cheshire fields and tea with the little old ladies after Evensong.

Where do I sign up for that afterlife? Maybe in the Brambly Hedge afterlife, I could finally get around to memorizing some poetry.


UPDATE:

SCORE!!

Thanks Sue! What would I do without my loyal readers?!



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