Scribe Doll

I am sitting on a wooden bench, by the red-brick wall of a small Elizabethan palace.  I am leaning against the arm-rest.  My legs, stretched out before me, take up two thirds of the seat, and my bare toes are wriggling with the pleasure of sunshine.  Behind the bench, a few sprigs of lavender nod to the breeze, and express their soothing fragrance.  The self-satisfied gurgle of the Tudor courtyard fountain is caressing my soul.  Somewhere in the vicinity, a crow is cawing.  I sense mockery in his or her tone.  On my lap, is my usual A4 spiral notebook; in my hand, my usual fountain pen.

A gentleman and his wife stop to ask me directions for the café in the park.  Before I have a chance to point, he exclaims, “Oh, my goodness – you’re writing! And with a proper pen! It’s ages since I’ve seen anyone…

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