The cunning folk don’t need wands, they don’t need rhymes or learnt spells— their incantations are soul-born. This the language of the land, the magic of an unknown list of generations Divination and seeing are not bestowed, they’re not learnt. The deep magics are from the blood on the crooked path

I was empty, I had nothing left. Inspiration had left me. I didn’t write for nearly 8 months. But I have now written 10 songs inspired by Arwald, our last king. I am now trying to write something new twice a day for here.

As always you are never a trouble to me. I will always take your call if you need me. Yes, Roger had kept me up to date. Bless that man. I haven’t wanted to bother you with my rubbish. I’ve thought of you often and as always praying hard. I will be in London again and we will all go to Dim Sum

I have the most beautiful friends in the world.

Thank you David, I feel the same. I know I have been quiet for a while, but I’ve been watching. It took me time to come back, but am very glad I have. You bring a light I always need.

And now, time to finally delete my Twitter account.

“Warmth on my back, stops the chills in my bones,” said the Crooked Woman. “Don’t be fooled, the sting of the Hollowed Shades will get you,” she warns with a nod. “The season of the long shadows, is not for us, it is for the Somewhen and those they dwell within.” So says the Crooked Woman.

He was a great First Minister.

As fires blaze and families warm their toes, the Hollowed Shades stir. Born of the dying ash, they watch with envious eyes from the darkened corners. Restless and cold, they long for the warmth of life. When the flames fade, their whispers grow, drawing closer with each flicker and ember’s fall.

In the Season of the Long Shadows, the Hollowed Shades rise from dusk, creeping between the trees. Their whispers promise doom, their touch chills the soul. When the deep thud of a slamming door echoes, beware—the Shades are near, and those who hear it feel they may never be warm again.