Lots of different places, apparently! I am now happily settled in the Quaint Borough of Guildford with Penelope. It's early days yet, but at no point in the past week has she cried aloud in terror and dawning madness, sprung from the sofa and thrown herself with a despairing cry into the abyss.
It is of course only a matter of time. As Anna is perhaps too lovely to testify, those whom the gods wish to destroy, they first make Sarah's flatmate.
Guildford has a pre-conquest church, and I have a pink phone I call Barbie. I have to say, symbols of anti-feminist oppression they may be, but I love me some Barbies. I collected the dark-haired Barbie's Friends and had them live in a glamorous upper-class brothel. (In many ways, I was quite a precocious nine year old.) Any of my Londonian people may have Barbie's number anytime they choose!
Home is lovely and college is lovely so far, though of course I am in a Strange New Place and feeling a little apprehensive and sometimes like I want someone to hold my hand.
I comfort myself with extravagant purchases like Pratchett's latest, Wintersmith. Which led me to think of the comforts and - more importantly - dreadful miseries to be found in fiction. Which leads me to a question. Which books have genuinely made you cry? I want to know, for I want to read them.
My Top Three Tearjerkers.
1. Thomasina by Paul Gallico
It is the story of a cat! Not a talking cat, but just a cat, and the way people around her react to her, the little girl who owns her, the little girl's stern veterinarian father, et cetera. It's just so well observed! And there's this one scene. And you really feel the sheer helplessness of an animal in the hands of humans. And I cried my fool eyes out!
2. A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens
If you've wasted your life, and it's nobody's fault but yours, and you have a double who has everything, including the woman you love. Would you hate him, or would you be noble and make Maya cry and blow her nose on the dog?
3. The Forsyte Saga by John Galsworthy
I never expected my True Love to be a middle-aged and then old, balding, respectable City man who is unable to inspire affection in his wife and commits one great act of cruelty and one enormous act of love. Yet there it is, and in New York I was crying so hard that my Scary Flatmate Who Wasn't Anna knocked on the wall and asked me to keep it down.
Tell me yours!