tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21671480745742461632008-08-10T16:11:52.554+01:00lichfield deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443003084505231026noreply@blogger.comBlogger5125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2167148074574246163.post-83757792551763443172008-08-10T16:09:00.001+01:002008-08-10T16:11:52.567+01:00

I stood in Princes Street Gardens and gawped. The monstrous Scott Monument stood before me like a freakishly alien Eiffel Tower. Geigeresque in appearance, its four thunderous legs with their spearing pinnacles, its endlessly reaching, impossibly sharp spire, its perfect quadrilateral symmetry and its sleek streamlined profile all glaringly belied its status as 'tourist attraction'. It may have

lichfield deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443003084505231026noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2167148074574246163.post-79712380529179804972008-07-21T16:42:00.010+01:002008-07-29T19:18:08.035+01:00

Today was officially the first day of my first mission. I was in theory working with other agents but I was told that they wouldn't make themselves known to me or be revealed in any way. I figured that I just needed to settle for concentrating on my role in the bigger plan and not worry about anything else. It was a peculiar day to wake up to. I'd spent much of the previous night turning myself

lichfield deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443003084505231026noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2167148074574246163.post-31361750039133976562008-07-15T22:41:00.004+01:002008-07-15T23:09:10.458+01:00

I sat at the kitchen table and eyed up the box suspiciously. It looked worryingly like a plain, ordinary box of the cardboard variety. Yet it couldn't possibly be. The events of the previous night were rolling around and around in my head in a perpetual loop. It was a bit like having a zoetrope for a brain. Image after image, memory after memory, and all beginning and ending with that debonair

lichfield deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443003084505231026noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2167148074574246163.post-57451716691649982862008-07-03T18:39:00.002+01:002008-07-08T15:10:30.424+01:00

I was 19 years and three hundred and sixty-two days old. I was, as any girl of that age, looking forward to a fun night out with my friends. I was a student of electrical engineering at a major university. It was probably at the beginning of the great shift from vocational learning to academic learning - it was becoming more usual for teenagers to go into university but it still wasn't the norm.

lichfield deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443003084505231026noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2167148074574246163.post-53191675575842861592008-07-03T18:34:00.003+01:002008-07-08T15:09:28.619+01:00

At the time of writing this foreword I am seventy-three years old, but you wouldn't think it to look at me. You would think I was twenty. Which, in a way, I am. I present here a selection of memories; memories culled from diaries, notebooks, distant recollections and gentle reminders from friends and acquaintances. These memoirs are recorded here so that my story may not go forgotten. It may be

lichfield deanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01443003084505231026noreply@blogger.com