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It is Christmas. I am drinking a cup of Imperial Spice tea (kitamurin, you are a goddess among women), curled up in a chair next to the fire, wearing new silk pajamas. I have Chris Wickham's The Inheritance of Rome on hand, and later tonight there will be Italian food. I am a very happy Emily. Happy, and soon to be busy, because the next few days will be ( Read more... )

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Well, that was something of a miserable flight. I didn't get a wink of sleep, my seatmates were drunk and fined for smoking in the lavatories, and I was veritably surrounded by children under the age of three.

But I am here now, and I have my own room. There is a window that opens out onto the street, an armchair that I am going to push in ( Read more... )