All was quiet for several minutes until the fog broke and a large oak tree passed outside my portside window.

I like to have scones with jam and clotted cream for afternoon tea.

There they were, the devoted babushkas and dedushkas, mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers of Bobby’s companions, lugging their bags, their bulging packages and bundles.

I don't believe I've ever run into a Delia before. Well, it's Cordelia, really. My father named me that. And are you one? Am I one what? Are you your father's Cordelia?