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Stuart Ayris - The Truth About Trees


I write to you at 10.23 am on Saturday. It is 9.23 pm on Friday for you.
Until you get your hands on Skallagrig, there is always a certain walking book.
Just been taking photographs on the beach here for the cover of one of my upcoming books "Swim the Atlantic".

I do have that certain walking book and it is my next Kindle for PC read! Skallagrig will be my bedtime in bed read!







I am ok with being a bit weird though, who wants to be normal eh?

Whilst Liz sat on the park bench waiting for Brando to explain why he had accosted her so Eryn Rose had Rod finally within her sights. She was swinging on her new favourite swing when she saw her diminutive quarry stumble out of the door of the block of flats to her left. She watched as he tried to regain his cool and she smiled as she leapt from the swing when it was at its wowest highest point. She stretched her arms out wide, bowed to an invisible audience and skipped into the street.
Eryn's singing was always a little louder than she knew. And she just loved to sing to herself, particularly when the days were long and bright. The tingaling notes that swayed from her pretty red mouth blended with the summer air as if they were tickling the very sky itself. And so light were her feet upon the ground that it was her gentle sing songing that caused Rod to stop and turn.





And the albatross, well it dances – my god does it dance! It preens and it points and it calls and it stares and it clacks and it absolutely hootly dootly bedazzles this entire world. Yet who of us can say we have seen it? Who of us has witnessed this bird that nobody sees?
Whilst in the air the albatross is the wonder of all wonderments, yet on land it is but a clumsy fool, stiggering and staggering and tripping over its own befuddled feet. In the air it just catches the donovan wind and it is the sweet troubled fingers of Peter Green. It SOARS and CORS and it whispers to the heavens from the depths of its beatings – it is magnificent.

And the albatross, well it dances – my god does it dance! It preens a..."
Wow! Now stop teasing and carry on writing, so mean ;-) xx

You could get work on top gear.

Hmm thanks Patti!! They Are good but not Top Gear good!!! :-)


"First?" queried Rod. "Are you sure?"
"You've got your own cue, haven't you?" said Dave, nodding down at what was now most definitely a piece of wood with chalk on the end.
"Yeah, but first. I've not even had time to warm up."
"Nor have those fuckers. Do you really think Glyn would be smiling at them if he wasn't serving them some out of date shit that wasn't going to send them to the bogs quicker than George Michael on a promise? You'll be fine mate. Just take your time. You know what you're doing. And so does Glyn..."

Gay has just read "Tollesbury" and enjoyed it as much as I did. While commenting on your ability to get inside the head of the afflicted, she wondered if you have read "Skallagrig" by William Horwoood.
If not, this is something you really must read. And that goes for anybody else reading this. :-) It is a wonderful book. Horwood is best known for anthropomorphic books such as "Duncton Wood", but "Skallagrig" is his masterpiece. I believe his daughter suffered from cerebral palsy. Judging by the book, he must have done a Vulcan mind-meld with her, to know exactly what was going on inside her head.
"Skallagrig" is a slow starter but stick with it - it is magnificent. Rather like your own works - in the magnificence department, I mean, not the slow starting!