Today is Jane Austen's birthday.
Again.
I would like to say that I have done something terribly literate and symbolic to mark the occassion, but quite fittingly, I attended a small private gathering for dinner and conversation, where almost everyone has known each other a little bit too long and there are no secrets, other than the very obvious. Our own little piece of ivory in Summer Hill.
1 comment:
In a stroke of divine weirdness, I forgot about Jane's birthday but started reading Emma on the bus on Saturday morning. I'm channeling!!
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