Thanks to a fall which resulted in a bruised foot, I haven't had a chance to get out to take pictures of what I had intended - red berries. Instead I've had to content myself with books, not just any red books (and they have all been read), but each of these has a special meaning for me.
The first is one we gave some years ago to my mother-in-law, before we realised she had Alzheimers. She always loved it, both the contents and the cover.
I won the second book, The Riddle of the Sands, in a competition, though not this copy. The original was lost during one of our moves so I replaced it. I can remember my grandmother in Dublin one day pointing out Erskine Childers, the son of the author, to me.
The book of poetry was a present from my elder son, another book lover.
The Rottweiler is one I had autographed by Ruth Rendell when I went to a talk she gave on the history of crime writing. The talk was held in Chawton, where Jane Austen once lived.
And of course I couldn't resist including The Psychology of Pain, because of the circumstances :)
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