Alright, before my usual paragraph I have to say something current and coviddy. Today is Sunday 5 April 2020. Coronavirus is sweeping its scythe across the world. More than a million infections worldwide, and that's only the ones we know about. I'm hiding in my home as much as I can (the more things change the more they stay the same - don't you love cliches?). When I have to go out I'm holding my breath whenever I walk past other people, walking in wide loops around them, looking suspiciously whenever I hear a cough and glaring when someone wanders too close to me. Phrase of the year, 2020: social distancing. Learn it. Do it. Live (or at very least don't kill me - you see how altruistic I am?). When I come home I'm taking my shoes off at the door, and washing my hands more than I ever have in my life. Am I nuts? Probably. But at least I won't get COVID-19. Cough.
Now follows my usual paragraph (mostly).
Frances Mason is a resident of sunny Australia (consequently is too much i' the sun - ok, we're heading towards winter now, so not so much sun), loves great literature, especially Chaucer, Shakespeare, Jane Austen, Dawn Powell, Iris Murdoch, Anthony Burgess, James Joyce and Joyce Cary, and is currently writing a fictional life of Shakespeare, fictional lives of a number of other Elizabethan playwrights, a collection of Elizabethan picaresque tales, a fictional memoir (based very loosely on a much loved brother, who's recently deceased and therefore can't sue for libel), and too many short stories to list. Recent hobbies include, avoiding quality time with relatives (successfully), solving the Rubik's cube (slowly), juggling (poorly), and being paranoid about COVID-19 (without stocking up on toilet paper - don't you miss the days of the daily newspaper, when you always had a steady supply with which to print the day's headlines on your bum?).