so there’s a naughty newsagent (we shall not disclose their particulars) that takes out the supplements from the Sunday Papers and makes them available, for a (not unreasonable) price.

and considering we no longer stomach the reading of Vast newspapers on a sunday (the weekend FT meets our needs and its peculiar salmon color/colour/shade is rather appealing) we are glad they do.

for otherwise we would have Missed this delicious piece on The Moth by the utterly glorious Joan Juliet Buck.

the story is a splendid tale of travels with a band of raconteurs – much in the spirit of the roaming celtic Seanchaí in eons-gone-by who entertained, inspired, agitated-with-raw-and-beautiful-new-ideas from Abroad and came to the hearth for comfort, connection and to earn passage to new lands as soon as the sun rose warm in the sky once more.

may we share a few lines with you?

tis inspiring and beauteous prose.

Across the Atlantic, as the editor in chief of French Vogue, I watched a thousand fashion shows without stories and developed an urgent need for stories without fashion shows. The Moth was everything I longed for.

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…….listening to the notes as he tiptoed along octaves like a cat, I felt that I was getting drunk on sound.

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I bounded on stage after Elna, feeling pumped and primed by the crowd, as powerful as a soul singer and as centered as a poet laureate. There was a difference between a sober bookstore audience and a drunken mass of educated youth; the first had listened, the second carried us.

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I was replete, exhausted and happy.

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I come from stories, I thought, lying in the only comfortable bed I was to know all winter. I come from stories. As long as there’s a story, I’m at home.

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sigh.

gorgeous, right?

and there’s a moment near the beginning of the piece where we suddenly felt an easing-in-the-chest (for there had been a panic recently, which we’ll explain after the Quote).

The comedian-writer-direct Buck Henry was there, and George Plimpton, the writer-sportsman-editor-actor, and the novelist and improviser Jonathan Ames – all hyphenates. No one there did just one thing with their lives.