When I was a kid, my aspirations were simple. I wanted a dog. I wanted a house that had stairs in it— two floors for one family.
Picture a fairytale’s engraving. Straight black trees stretching in perfect symmetry to their vanishing point, the ground covered in thick white snow.
At the time of the discovery of the astonishingly ancient Learned Man, some decades back, my friend Peter Jorgensen, a scientist from Melbourne, was testing dried lake basins and their sediments for records of ancient rainfall oscillations.
Temperatures that late January morning plunged to four degrees above zero, and still people came by the hundreds of thousands, packing both sides of the procession route from Capitol Hill to the White House.
It’s a wonder everyone who uses public transport in winter doesn’t keel over and die of germ overload.
So many people ask me, with love and kindness in their hearts, “What has been your proudest moment, Ziauddin?”
I was idling away the pre-cocktail ennui, flicking cards into the coal scuttle, when in buttled Jeeves with the quenching tray.
‘Brave woman!’ How often have I heard those words spoken by people who have discovered that I am writing a biography of Germaine Greer. They are speaking not of her, but of me.
It will come as no surprise to Australia’s 24 million sports fans that our sunburnt continent is home to one of the most dominant predators the world has ever seen.
When snow shuts down Greg Heffley’s middle school, his neighborhood transforms into a wintry battlefield.
Never have I doubted my soundness of mind as often as I did on that first night, when the bird-woman and her wards came to save me from the madhouse.
I watched the eight-story apartment building on 161st, about half a block from Melrose Avenue.
Petr Kliment held Kristína, his six-month-old granddaughter, on a patch of grass on the shore of the Jizera River.
It was the Bad Godesberg incident that gave the proof, though the German authorities had no earthly means of knowing this.