Maisie and her Sparkly Speedy Running Spikes

Plus, you obviously need time to write. How do you balance the demands of a family with that of in-demand author? I do as much as I can from home, and many libraries, bookstores and book clubs have been wonderful to Skype or FaceTime with me to cut down a bit on travel. Beyond that, my travel has been streamlined to help me better maintain that work life balance. Beyond that, my family has a trip to Hilton Head planned this summer. As always, it was a pleasure, Mary. Thanks for taking the time to chat. Is there anything else I should have asked but may have forgotten?

I think you covered everything, Leslie! Thank you for including me again, and I look forward to chatting over coffee sometime soon. She lives outside of Chicago with her husband and two children, where she enjoys photography, gardening and caring for the animals at a local shelter. Image of Harvey Rd. It seems Mary Kubica has had a quick rise to prominence. I was reading away and thinking I had it all figured out.

Oh, but wait…maybe not. As with my two earlier novels, that first spark of inspiration is always some unintentional and underdeveloped idea that pops into my mind. With The Good Girl, it was a kidnapping; with Pretty Baby, it was a vision of a young homeless girl with a baby. These were details I figured out during the writing process. I think the storyline itself mimics my own frantic writing during this time.

My second novel, Pretty Baby , has a heavy dose of marital conflict, family strife and the difficulties of motherhood worked in. That said, she is a likeable girl and I know there are aspects of her young life I see in my own. I think readers will easily relate to her struggles of growing up and coming to terms with adulthood. This riveting psychological thriller had me turning the pages at warp-speed and kept me rooting for its heroine, the completely relatable Quinn Collins, who sets out to uncover the truth about her seemingly-perfect female roommate after the roommate mysteriously vanishes.

The plot twists and turns more than Single White Female on steroids, and both women characters are crafted with emotional intelligence and extraordinary talent. Mary Kubica is a must-read for me, and she will be for you, too. Is there a lot of research that goes into this, or is it just you and your super-power knowledge of being a Chicagoan?

Many of the structures I mention — the coffee shop at Clark and Berwyn, for example, or the book store where Esther works — are completely fictional, and so the end result is a combination of prior knowledge, some research and a little imagination. And then we hop-skip to the other side of the lake, to a sleepy little Michigan resort town where we meet Alex Gallo, the young dishwasher who falls under the spell of a mysterious young woman. I felt this place very strongly. The cool November wind, the deserted streets after everyone left at the end of the season, the metaphorical chill.

Do you feel as though setting often becomes character? Setting is very important to me, and plays a central role in all of my novels. As a Chicagoan, I spent many summers vacationing on the eastern shores of Lake Michigan in towns like St. Oh, how they fascinate me! Was there a real-life inspiration for this, or did it just magically appear for you?

This home fascinated me as well! When I started writing the novel, it was completely fictional, but as soon as I realized the house was going to play a much more significant role, it became my mission to get the look and feel of the home just right. I did research and found some older, abandoned homes in the towns around mine, and visited them to be sure I got the details right, the way the homes sunk at their bases; the cracked concrete foundations; the vines that snaked around the exterior of the homes, barring any natural light from entering the inside.

Mrs. Dalloway / Virginia Woolf

I found it captivating to imagine the family that once lived there, and to wonder what happened to them, and why the homes were now abandoned. Does that help you in the writing process…to create a sense of surprise and urgency on your part? Is it a hindrance? There are many times the paths the stories take surprise me, and I find this thrilling as an author, though without fail, there are also things I end up revising or deleting because the direction of the book changes throughout the process.

And I look at you and think, no…not this sweet gal with two young kids and a cat for every member of the family. But insinuating yourself into the minds of…well, crazy, sinister people is kind of fun. Can you speak to that, please? Well, anyone who has four cats probably has to be a little bit crazy! This one should release in the summer of My next project is where my obsession lies these days.

Thanks for taking the time to chat with us, Mary! Such a pleasure, as always. Thank you so much for having me, Leslie. She holds a Bachelor of Arts degree from Miami University in Oxford, Ohio, and lives outside of Chicago with her husband and two children. Abandoned house image retrieved from on 2.

And today, I am honored to sit down with Mary and chat about her second book. I loved having you last summer and so appreciate you popping by again today. What was the initial inspiration for you? But once I plunged into the writing process, I knew that Willow, our homeless girl, needed to be able to tell her side of the tale as well. Willow has quite a story to tell. For me, I find this works quite well. I find it hard to call myself that — an author — out loud for some reason, and tend to be a bit of an introvert anyway; I try hard to avoid talking about me.

Can you tell us a few truths you learned from each of these characters? Did anything surprise you? Without giving too much away, I can tell you that these characters are quite multi-dimensional, and with them, you can never take anything at face value. They truly did surprise me each and every day, Leslie. How might an author maintain her or his humility and stay true to the craft of storytelling?

I find it hard to talk about things like agents and book tours in my suburban mom life, and really do keep the two very separate. I am still the animal shelter volunteer and suburban mom who writes novels in whatever spare time I can find. The only difference now is that from time to time I pack a few dresses and hop on a plane, and get to play the role of bestselling author. I supposed I live two very separate lives. Oh gosh, I have read so many terrific books lately, so these are just a few of them: I also got a sneak peek at some ARCs by T.

Greenwood and Carla Buckley — be sure to look out for them. If all goes according to plan, that will release in Be sure to stay tuned for more details! The pleasure is all mine. Mary Kubica is the national bestselling author of The Good Girl. She holds a bachelor of arts degree in history and American literature from Miami University in Oxford, Ohio. She lives outside Chicago with her husband and two children.

Pretty Baby is her second novel. It has to do with four questions that are floating around in the blogosphere about—what else—writing! I often have my hand in many pots, but this time I have learned to focus on one project at a time. But you want to know what I am writing?! Oh, you want more information? Okay, how about a ghost story based on an urban legend originating in St. How does my project differ from others in the same genre? Ah, always the BIG question. And a good one.

He would give her, who was so simple, so impulsive, only twenty-four, without friends in England, who had left Italy for his sake, a piece of bone. The motor car with its blinds drawn and an air of inscrutable reserve proceeded towards Piccadilly, still gazed at, still ruffling the faces on both sides of the street with the same dark breath of veneration whether for Queen, Prince, or Prime Minister nobody knew.

The face itself had been seen only once by three people for a few seconds. Even the sex was now in dispute. The face in the motor car will then be known. It is probably the Queen, thought Mrs. The Queen going to some hospital; the Queen opening some bazaar, thought Clarissa. The crush was terrific for the time of day.

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Lords, Ascot, Hurlingham, what was it? The British middle classes sitting sideways on the tops of omnibuses with parcels and umbrellas, yes, even furs on a day like this, were, she thought, more ridiculous, more unlike anything there has ever been than one could conceive; and the Queen herself held up; the Queen herself unable to pass. Clarissa was suspended on one side of Brook Street; Sir John Buckhurst, the old Judge on the other, with the car between them Sir John had laid down the law for years and liked a well-dressed woman when the chauffeur, leaning ever so slightly, said or showed something to the policeman, who saluted and raised his arm and jerked his head and moved the omnibus to the side and the car passed through.

Slowly and very silently it took its way. And Clarissa, too, gave a party. She stiffened a little; so she would stand at the top of her stairs. For thirty seconds all heads were inclined the same way — to the window. Choosing a pair of gloves — should they be to the elbow or above it, lemon or pale grey? In a public house in a back street a Colonial insulted the House of Windsor which led to words, broken beer glasses, and a general shindy, which echoed strangely across the way in the ears of girls buying white underlinen threaded with pure white ribbon for their weddings.

For the surface agitation of the passing car as it sunk grazed something very profound. Gliding across Piccadilly, the car turned down St. The white busts and the little tables in the background covered with copies of the Tatler and syphons of soda water seemed to approve; seemed to indicate the flowing corn and the manor houses of England; and to return the frail hum of the motor wheels as the walls of a whispering gallery return a single voice expanded and made sonorous by the might of a whole cathedral.

Shawled Moll Pratt with her flowers on the pavement wished the dear boy well it was the Prince of Wales for certain and would have tossed the price of a pot of beer — a bunch of roses — into St. The sentries at St. A small crowd meanwhile had gathered at the gates of Buckingham Palace. The Prince lived at St. So Sarah Bletchley said with her baby in her arms, tipping her foot up and down as though she were by her own fender in Pimlico, but keeping her eyes on the Mall, while Emily Coates ranged over the Palace windows and thought of the housemaids, the innumerable housemaids, the bedrooms, the innumerable bedrooms.

Joined by an elderly gentleman with an Aberdeen terrier, by men without occupation, the crowd increased. Bowley, who had rooms in the Albany and was sealed with wax over the deeper sources of life but could be unsealed suddenly, inappropriately, sentimentally, by this sort of thing — poor women waiting to see the Queen go past — poor women, nice little children, orphans, widows, the War — tut-tut — actually had tears in his eyes.

A breeze flaunting ever so warmly down the Mall through the thin trees, past the bronze heroes, lifted some flag flying in the British breast of Mr. Bowley and he raised his hat as the car turned into the Mall and held it high as the car approached; and let the poor mothers of Pimlico press close to him, and stood very upright.

The car came on. Coates looked up into the sky. The sound of an aeroplane bored ominously into the ears of the crowd. There it was coming over the trees, letting out white smoke from behind, which curled and twisted, actually writing something! Every one looked up. Dropping dead down the aeroplane soared straight up, curved in a loop, raced, sank, rose, and whatever it did, wherever it went, out fluttered behind it a thick ruffled bar of white smoke which curled and wreathed upon the sky in letters.

A C was it? Only for a moment did they lie still; then they moved and melted and were rubbed out up in the sky, and the aeroplane shot further away and again, in a fresh space of sky, began writing a K, an E, a Y perhaps? Coates in a strained, awe-stricken voice, gazing straight up, and her baby, lying stiff and white in her arms, gazed straight up. Bletchley, like a sleep-walker. With his hat held out perfectly still in his hand, Mr. Bowley gazed straight up.

All down the Mall people were standing and looking up into the sky. As they looked the whole world became perfectly silent, and a flight of gulls crossed the sky, first one gull leading, then another, and in this extraordinary silence and peace, in this pallor, in this purity, bells struck eleven times, the sound fading up there among the gulls. Bowley — and the car went in at the gates and nobody looked at it , and shutting off the smoke, away and away it rushed, and the smoke faded and assembled itself round the broad white shapes of the clouds. It had gone; it was behind the clouds.

There was no sound. The clouds to which the letters E, G, or L had attached themselves moved freely, as if destined to cross from West to East on a mission of the greatest importance which would never be revealed, and yet certainly so it was — a mission of the greatest importance. Holmes had told her to make her husband who had nothing whatever seriously the matter with him but was a little out of sorts take an interest in things outside himself.

So, thought Septimus, looking up, they are signalling to me. Not indeed in actual words; that is, he could not read the language yet; but it was plain enough, this beauty, this exquisite beauty, and tears filled his eyes as he looked at the smoke words languishing and melting in the sky and bestowing upon him in their inexhaustible charity and laughing goodness one shape after another of unimaginable beauty and signalling their intention to provide him, for nothing, for ever, for looking merely, with beauty, more beauty!

Tears ran down his cheeks. It was toffee; they were advertising toffee, a nursemaid told Rezia. Together they began to spell t. A marvellous discovery indeed — that the human voice in certain atmospheric conditions for one must be scientific, above all scientific can quicken trees into life! But he would not go mad. He would shut his eyes; he would see no more. But they beckoned; leaves were alive; trees were alive.

And the leaves being connected by millions of fibres with his own body, there on the seat, fanned it up and down; when the branch stretched he, too, made that statement. The sparrows fluttering, rising, and falling in jagged fountains were part of the pattern; the white and blue, barred with black branches. Sounds made harmonies with premeditation; the spaces between them were as significant as the sounds. Rightly far away a horn sounded. For she could stand it no longer. Holmes might say there was nothing the matter. Far rather would she that he were dead!

She could not sit beside him when he stared so and did not see her and made everything terrible; sky and tree, children playing, dragging carts, blowing whistles, falling down; all were terrible. And he would not kill himself; and she could tell no one. To love makes one solitary, she thought. She could tell nobody, not even Septimus now, and looking back, she saw him sitting in his shabby overcoat alone, on the seat, hunched up, staring.

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And it was cowardly for a man to say he would kill himself, but Septimus had fought; he was brave; he was not Septimus now. She put on her lace collar. She put on her new hat and he never noticed; and he was happy without her. Nothing could make her happy without him! For he was not ill. Holmes said there was nothing the matter with him. She spread her hand before her.

Her wedding ring slipped — she had grown so thin. It was she who suffered — but she had nobody to tell. Far was Italy and the white houses and the room where her sisters sat making hats, and the streets crowded every evening with people walking, laughing out loud, not half alive like people here, huddled up in Bath chairs, looking at a few ugly flowers stuck in pots! So a rocket fades. Its sparks, having grazed their way into the night, surrender to it, dark descends, pours over the outlines of houses and towers; bleak hillsides soften and fall in.

But though they are gone, the night is full of them; robbed of colour, blank of windows, they exist more ponderously, give out what the frank daylight fails to transmit — the trouble and suspense of things conglomerated there in the darkness; huddled together in the darkness; reft of the relief which dawn brings when, washing the walls white and grey, spotting each window-pane, lifting the mist from the fields, showing the red-brown cows peacefully grazing, all is once more decked out to the eye; exists again.

I am alone; I am alone! Turning, the shelf fell; down, down she dropped.

For he was gone, she thought — gone, as he threatened, to kill himself — to throw himself under a cart! But no; there he was; still sitting alone on the seat, in his shabby overcoat, his legs crossed, staring, talking aloud. Men must not cut down trees. There is a God. He noted such revelations on the backs of envelopes. No one kills from hatred. Make it known he wrote it down. A sparrow perched on the railing opposite chirped Septimus, Septimus, four or five times over and went on, drawing its notes out, to sing freshly and piercingly in Greek words how there is no crime and, joined by another sparrow, they sang in voices prolonged and piercing in Greek words, from trees in the meadow of life beyond a river where the dead walk, how there is no death.

There was his hand; there the dead. White things were assembling behind the railings opposite. But he dared not look. Evans was behind the railings! Away from people — they must get away from people, he said jumping up , right away over there, where there were chairs beneath a tree and the long slope of the park dipped like a length of green stuff with a ceiling cloth of blue and pink smoke high above, and there was a rampart of far irregular houses hazed in smoke, the traffic hummed in a circle, and on the right, dun-coloured animals stretched long necks over the Zoo palings, barking, howling.

There they sat down under a tree. Holmes had told her to make him notice real things, go to a music hall, play cricket — that was the very game, Dr. Holmes said, a nice out-of-door game, the very game for her husband. Look the unseen bade him, the voice which now communicated with him who was the greatest of mankind, Septimus, lately taken from life to death, the Lord who had come to renew society, who lay like a coverlet, a snow blanket smitten only by the sun, for ever unwasted, suffering for ever, the scapegoat, the eternal sufferer, but he did not want it, he moaned, putting from him with a wave of his hand that eternal suffering, that eternal loneliness.

She was only up from Edinburgh two days ago. Both seemed queer, Maisie Johnson thought. Everything seemed very queer. For she was only nineteen and had got her way at last, to come to London; and now how queer it was, this couple she had asked the way of, and the girl started and jerked her hand, and the man — he seemed awfully odd; quarrelling, perhaps; parting for ever, perhaps; something was up, she knew; and now all these people for she returned to the Broad Walk , the stone basins, the prim flowers, the old men and women, invalids most of them in Bath chairs — all seemed, after Edinburgh, so queer.

And Maisie Johnson, as she joined that gently trudging, vaguely gazing, breeze-kissed company — squirrels perching and preening, sparrow fountains fluttering for crumbs, dogs busy with the railings, busy with each other, while the soft warm air washed over them and lent to the fixed unsurprised gaze with which they received life something whimsical and mollified — Maisie Johnson positively felt she must cry Oh!

Something was up, she knew.

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She had left her people; they had warned her what would happen. That girl, thought Mrs. Well, better to have a son, thought Mrs. Oh, the cooks, and so on. Every man has his ways. Dempster, and could not help wishing to whisper a word to Maisie Johnson; to feel on the creased pouch of her worn old face the kiss of pity. Roses; figure; her feet too. She drew the knobbed lumps beneath her skirt.

Roses, she thought sardonically. But, she implored, pity. Pity, for the loss of roses. Pity she asked of Maisie Johnson, standing by the hyacinth beds. Ah, but that aeroplane! Dempster always longed to see foreign parts? She had a nephew, a missionary. It soared and shot. It swept and fell. Her stomach was in her mouth. Dempster wagered, and away and away it went, fast and fading, away and away the aeroplane shot; soaring over Greenwich and all the masts; over the little island of grey churches, St.

Away and away the aeroplane shot, till it was nothing but a bright spark; an aspiration; a concentration; a symbol so it seemed to Mr. Bentley, sweeping round the cedar tree, to get outside his body, beyond his house, by means of thought, Einstein, speculation, mathematics, the Mendelian theory — away the aeroplane shot.

Then, while a seedy-looking nondescript man carrying a leather bag stood on the steps of St. It was strange; it was still. Not a sound was to be heard above the traffic. Unguided it seemed; sped of its own free will. And now, curving up and up, straight up, like something mounting in ecstasy, in pure delight, out from behind poured white smoke looping, writing a T, an O, an F.

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The hall of the house was cool as a vault. The cook whistled in the kitchen. She heard the click of the typewriter. It was her life, and, bending her head over the hall table, she bowed beneath the influence, felt blessed and purified, saying to herself, as she took the pad with the telephone message on it, how moments like this are buds on the tree of life, flowers of darkness they are, she thought as if some lovely rose had blossomed for her eyes only ; not for a moment did she believe in God; but all the more, she thought, taking up the pad, must one repay in daily life to servants, yes, to dogs and canaries, above all to Richard her husband, who was the foundation of it — of the gay sounds, of the green lights, of the cook even whistling, for Mrs.

Walker was Irish and whistled all day long — one must pay back from this secret deposit of exquisite moments, she thought, lifting the pad, while Lucy stood by her, trying to explain how. Dalloway will lunch with her to-day. Millicent Bruton, whose lunch parties were said to be extraordinarily amusing, had not asked her. No vulgar jealousy could separate her from Richard. She put the pad on the hall table. She began to go slowly upstairs, with her hand on the bannisters, as if she had left a party, where now this friend now that had flashed back her face, her voice; had shut the door and gone out and stood alone, a single figure against the appalling night, or rather, to be accurate, against the stare of this matter-of-fact June morning; soft with the glow of rose petals for some, she knew, and felt it, as she paused by the open staircase window which let in blinds flapping, dogs barking, let in, she thought, feeling herself suddenly shrivelled, aged, breastless, the grinding, blowing, flowering of the day, out of doors, out of the window, out of her body and brain which now failed, since Lady Bruton, whose lunch parties were said to be extraordinarily amusing, had not asked her.

Like a nun withdrawing, or a child exploring a tower, she went upstairs, paused at the window, came to the bathroom. There was the green linoleum and a tap dripping. There was an emptiness about the heart of life; an attic room. Women must put off their rich apparel. At midday they must disrobe. She pierced the pincushion and laid her feathered yellow hat on the bed. The sheets were clean, tight stretched in a broad white band from side to side.

Narrower and narrower would her bed be. She had read late at night of the retreat from Moscow. For the House sat so long that Richard insisted, after her illness, that she must sleep undisturbed. And really she preferred to read of the retreat from Moscow. So the room was an attic; the bed narrow; and lying there reading, for she slept badly, she could not dispel a virginity preserved through childbirth which clung to her like a sheet.

Lovely in girlhood, suddenly there came a moment — for example on the river beneath the woods at Clieveden — when, through some contraction of this cold spirit, she had failed him. And then at Constantinople, and again and again. She could see what she lacked. It was not beauty; it was not mind. It was something central which permeated; something warm which broke up surfaces and rippled the cold contact of man and woman, or of women together. For THAT she could dimly perceive. She resented it, had a scruple picked up Heaven knows where, or, as she felt, sent by Nature who is invariably wise ; yet she could not resist sometimes yielding to the charm of a woman, not a girl, of a woman confessing, as to her they often did, some scrape, some folly.

And whether it was pity, or their beauty, or that she was older, or some accident — like a faint scent, or a violin next door so strange is the power of sounds at certain moments , she did undoubtedly then feel what men felt. Only for a moment; but it was enough. It was a sudden revelation, a tinge like a blush which one tried to check and then, as it spread, one yielded to its expansion, and rushed to the farthest verge and there quivered and felt the world come closer, swollen with some astonishing significance, some pressure of rapture, which split its thin skin and gushed and poured with an extraordinary alleviation over the cracks and sores!

Then, for that moment, she had seen an illumination; a match burning in a crocus; an inner meaning almost expressed. But the close withdrew; the hard softened. It was over — the moment. Against such moments with women too there contrasted as she laid her hat down the bed and Baron Marbot and the candle half-burnt. Lying awake, the floor creaked; the lit house was suddenly darkened, and if she raised her head she could just hear the click of the handle released as gently as possible by Richard, who slipped upstairs in his socks and then, as often as not, dropped his hot-water bottle and swore!

But this question of love she thought, putting her coat away , this falling in love with women. Take Sally Seton; her relation in the old days with Sally Seton. Had not that, after all, been love? She sat on the floor — that was her first impression of Sally — she sat on the floor with her arms round her knees, smoking a cigarette. Where could it have been? But all that evening she could not take her eyes off Sally.

Sally always said she had French blood in her veins, an ancestor had been with Marie Antoinette, had his head cut off, left a ruby ring. Perhaps that summer she came to stay at Bourton, walking in quite unexpectedly without a penny in her pocket, one night after dinner, and upsetting poor Aunt Helena to such an extent that she never forgave her. There had been some quarrel at home. She had rushed off in a passion. They sat up till all hours of the night talking. Sally it was who made her feel, for the first time, how sheltered the life at Bourton was. She knew nothing about sex — nothing about social problems.

She had once seen an old man who had dropped dead in a field — she had seen cows just after their calves were born. But Aunt Helena never liked discussion of anything when Sally gave her William Morris, it had to be wrapped in brown paper. There they sat, hour after hour, talking in her bedroom at the top of the house, talking about life, how they were to reform the world.

They meant to found a society to abolish private property, and actually had a letter written, though not sent out. There was her way with flowers, for instance. At Bourton they always had stiff little vases all the way down the table. Sally went out, picked hollyhocks, dahlias — all sorts of flowers that had never been seen together — cut their heads off, and made them swim on the top of water in bowls. The effect was extraordinary — coming in to dinner in the sunset. Of course Aunt Helena thought it wicked to treat flowers like that. Then she forgot her sponge, and ran along the passage naked.

She was untidy, Papa said. The strange thing, on looking back, was the purity, the integrity, of her feeling for Sally. It was completely disinterested, and besides, it had a quality which could only exist between women, between women just grown up. For in those days she was completely reckless; did the most idiotic things out of bravado; bicycled round the parapet on the terrace; smoked cigars. Absurd, she was — very absurd. She is beneath this roof! No, the words meant absolutely nothing to her now. She could not even get an echo of her old emotion. She was wearing pink gauze — was that possible?

She SEEMED, anyhow, all light, glowing, like some bird or air ball that has flown in, attached itself for a moment to a bramble. But nothing is so strange when one is in love and what was this except being in love? Aunt Helena just wandered off after dinner; Papa read the paper. Peter Walsh might have been there, and old Miss Cummings; Joseph Breitkopf certainly was, for he came every summer, poor old man, for weeks and weeks, and pretended to read German with her, but really played the piano and sang Brahms without any voice. All this was only a background for Sally. Peter Walsh and Joseph Breitkopf went on about Wagner.

She and Sally fell a little behind. Then came the most exquisite moment of her whole life passing a stone urn with flowers in it. Sally stopped; picked a flower; kissed her on the lips. The whole world might have turned upside down! The others disappeared; there she was alone with Sally. And she felt that she had been given a present, wrapped up, and told just to keep it, not to look at it — a diamond, something infinitely precious, wrapped up, which, as they walked up and down, up and down , she uncovered, or the radiance burnt through, the revelation, the religious feeling!

It was shocking; it was horrible! She felt only how Sally was being mauled already, maltreated; she felt his hostility; his jealousy; his determination to break into their companionship. All this she saw as one sees a landscape in a flash of lightning — and Sally never had she admired her so much! She made old Joseph tell her the names of the stars, which he liked doing very seriously. She heard the names of the stars. Yet, after all, how much she owed to him later. Always when she thought of him she thought of their quarrels for some reason — because she wanted his good opinion so much, perhaps.

She owed him words: A book was sentimental; an attitude to life sentimental. What would he think, she wondered, when he came back? That she had grown older? Would he say that, or would she see him thinking when he came back, that she had grown older? Since her illness she had turned almost white. Laying her brooch on the table, she had a sudden spasm, as if, while she mused, the icy claws had had the chance to fix in her. She was not old yet. She had just broken into her fifty-second year. Months and months of it were still untouched. Each still remained almost whole, and, as if to catch the falling drop, Clarissa crossing to the dressing-table plunged into the very heart of the moment, transfixed it, there — the moment of this June morning on which was the pressure of all the other mornings, seeing the glass, the dressing-table, and all the bottles afresh, collecting the whole of her at one point as she looked into the glass , seeing the delicate pink face of the woman who was that very night to give a party; of Clarissa Dalloway; of herself.

How many million times she had seen her face, and always with the same imperceptible contraction! She pursed her lips when she looked in the glass. It was to give her face point. That was her self — pointed; dartlike; definite. That was her self when some effort, some call on her to be her self, drew the parts together, she alone knew how different, how incompatible and composed so for the world only into one centre, one diamond, one woman who sat in her drawing-room and made a meeting-point, a radiancy no doubt in some dull lives, a refuge for the lonely to come to, perhaps; she had helped young people, who were grateful to her; had tried to be the same always, never showing a sign of all the other sides of her — faults, jealousies, vanities, suspicions, like this of Lady Bruton not asking her to lunch; which, she thought combing her hair finally , is utterly base!

Now, where was her dress? Her evening dresses hung in the cupboard. Clarissa, plunging her hand into the softness, gently detached the green dress and carried it to the window. She had torn it. Some one had trod on the skirt. She had felt it give at the Embassy party at the top among the folds. By artificial light the green shone, but lost its colour now in the sun. She would mend it. Her maids had too much to do. She would wear it to-night. She would take her silks, her scissors, her — what was it?

Strange, she thought, pausing on the landing, and assembling that diamond shape, that single person, strange how a mistress knows the very moment, the very temper of her house! Faint sounds rose in spirals up the well of the stairs; the swish of a mop; tapping; knocking; a loudness when the front door opened; a voice repeating a message in the basement; the chink of silver on a tray; clean silver for the party. All was for the party.

And Lucy, coming into the drawing-room with her tray held out, put the giant candlesticks on the mantelpiece, the silver casket in the middle, turned the crystal dolphin towards the clock. They would come; they would stand; they would talk in the mincing tones which she could imitate, ladies and gentlemen. Dalloway, she had enough on her hands already, quite enough of her own to do without that. Dalloway, and thank you, thank you, she went on saying sitting down on the sofa with her dress over her knees, her scissors, her silks , thank you, thank you, she went on saying in gratitude to her servants generally for helping her to be like this, to be what she wanted, gentle, generous-hearted.

Her servants liked her. And then this dress of hers — where was the tear? For she was a character, thought Clarissa, a real artist. She thought of little out-of-the-way things; yet her dresses were never queer. You could wear them at Hatfield; at Buckingham Palace. She had worn them at Hatfield; at Buckingham Palace. Quiet descended on her, calm, content, as her needle, drawing the silk smoothly to its gentle pause, collected the green folds together and attached them, very lightly, to the belt.

Fear no more, says the heart. Fear no more, says the heart, committing its burden to some sea, which sighs collectively for all sorrows, and renews, begins, collects, lets fall. And the body alone listens to the passing bee; the wave breaking; the dog barking, far away barking and barking. After five years in India, Clarissa will see me. She heard a hand upon the door. She made to hide her dress, like a virgin protecting chastity, respecting privacy.

Now the brass knob slipped. Now the door opened, and in came — for a single second she could not remember what he was called! She had not read his letter. Putting his hand into his pocket, he took out a large pocket-knife and half opened the blade. Exactly the same, thought Clarissa; the same queer look; the same check suit; a little out of the straight his face is, a little thinner, dryer, perhaps, but he looks awfully well, and just the same.

He had his knife out. He had only reached town last night, he said; would have to go down into the country at once; and how was everything, how was everybody — Richard? So it is, so it is, he thought, shutting his knife with a snap. And she opened her scissors, and said, did he mind her just finishing what she was doing to her dress, for they had a party that night? But it was delicious to hear her say that — my dear Peter! Indeed, it was all so delicious — the silver, the chairs; all so delicious!

Now I remember how impossible it was ever to make up my mind — and why did I make up my mind — not to marry him? Of course I did, thought Peter; it almost broke my heart too, he thought; and was overcome with his own grief, which rose like a moon looked at from a terrace, ghastly beautiful with light from the sunken day. And as if in truth he were sitting there on the terrace he edged a little towards Clarissa; put his hand out; raised it; let it fall. There above them it hung, that moon.

She too seemed to be sitting with him on the terrace, in the moonlight. Then, just as happens on a terrace in the moonlight, when one person begins to feel ashamed that he is already bored, and yet as the other sits silent, very quiet, sadly looking at the moon, does not like to speak, moves his foot, clears his throat, notices some iron scroll on a table leg, stirs a leaf, but says nothing — so Peter Walsh did now.

For why go back like this to the past? Why make him think of it again? Why make him suffer, when she had tortured him so infernally? She looked at Peter Walsh; her look, passing through all that time and that emotion, reached him doubtfully; settled on him tearfully; and rose and fluttered away, as a bird touches a branch and rises and flutters away.

Quite simply she wiped her eyes. For he was not old; his life was not over; not by any means. He was only just past fifty. Shall I tell her, he thought, or not? He would like to make a clean breast of it all. But she is too cold, he thought; sewing, with her scissors; Daisy would look ordinary beside Clarissa. Oh yes, he had no doubt about that; he was a failure, compared with all this — the inlaid table, the mounted paper-knife, the dolphin and the candlesticks, the chair-covers and the old valuable English tinted prints — he was a failure!

Here Lucy came into the room, carrying silver, more silver, but charming, slender, graceful she looked, he thought, as she stooped to put it down. And this has been going on all the time! What an extraordinary habit that was, Clarissa thought; always playing with a knife. Always making one feel, too, frivolous; empty-minded; a mere silly chatterbox, as he used. But I too, she thought, and, taking up her needle, summoned, like a Queen whose guards have fallen asleep and left her unprotected she had been quite taken aback by this visit — it had upset her so that any one can stroll in and have a look at her where she lies with the brambles curving over her, summoned to her help the things she did; the things she liked; her husband; Elizabeth; her self, in short, which Peter hardly knew now, all to come about her and beat off the enemy.

So before a battle begins, the horses paw the ground; toss their heads; the light shines on their flanks; their necks curve. So Peter Walsh and Clarissa, sitting side by side on the blue sofa, challenged each other. His powers chafed and tossed in him. He assembled from different quarters all sorts of things; praise; his career at Oxford; his marriage, which she knew nothing whatever about; how he had loved; and altogether done his job.

Clarissa could make what she would of it. That he at his age should be sucked under in his little bow-tie by that monster! He has that, she felt; he is in love. But the indomitable egotism which for ever rides down the hosts opposed to it, the river which says on, on, on; even though, it admits, there may be no goal for us whatever, still on, on; this indomitable egotism charged her cheeks with colour; made her look very young; very pink; very bright-eyed as she sat with her dress upon her knee, and her needle held to the end of green silk, trembling a little.

He was in love! With some younger woman, of course. And with a curious ironical sweetness he smiled as he placed her in this ridiculous way before Clarissa. Do what you like with them, Clarissa! And second by second it seemed to him that the wife of the Major in the Indian Army his Daisy and her two small children became more and more lovely as Clarissa looked at them; as if he had set light to a grey pellet on a plate and there had risen up a lovely tree in the brisk sea-salted air of their intimacy for in some ways no one understood him, felt with him, as Clarissa did — their exquisite intimacy.

She flattered him; she fooled him, thought Clarissa; shaping the woman, the wife of the Major in the Indian Army, with three strokes of a knife. All his life long Peter had been fooled like that; first getting sent down from Oxford; next marrying the girl on the boat going out to India; now the wife of a Major in the Indian Army — thank Heaven she had refused to marry him!

Still, he was in love; her old friend, her dear Peter, he was in love. Oh the lawyers and solicitors, Messrs. And he actually pared his nails with his pocket-knife. And Clarissa had leant forward, taken his hand, drawn him to her, kissed him — actually had felt his face on hers before she could down the brandishing of silver flashing — plumes like pampas grass in a tropic gale in her breast, which, subsiding, left her holding his hand, patting his knee and, feeling as she sat back extraordinarily at her ease with him and light-hearted, all in a clap it came over her, If I had married him, this gaiety would have been mine all day!

It was all over for her. The sheet was stretched and the bed narrow. Featuring 20 unique and colourful designs, the press-out pieces can be simply slotted together to create bright and cheerful safari animals. After putting them together, children can sing the safari animal song and get creative with crafts, including cardboard binoculars, a bendy monkey and animal cupcakes. Their lives over the next few years are beautifully realised amongst the antipathy of the authorities, the drama of the poll tax riots and the moments of peace and hope Ira finds at Skilly and further afield.

This is a memorable and moving tale about growing up, making friends and finding a home. Can Jasmine convince her family that Willow has hidden talents before she has to say goodbye forever? An exciting middle-grade debut with a natural, authentic voice and an important message of body positivity. Molly is in her final year of primary school, with secret dreams of becoming an Olympic swimmer.

Having always lived in the shadow of her manipulative friend, Chloe, Molly finally has the chance to compete in a regional swimming contest and define herself on her own terms. But with the pressure of fitting in, and the sudden arrival of her mysterious mum, will she give up on her dreams for a shot at popularity? Toby is no longer a little elephant. And when Mummy is too busy with Iris to help him, Toby ends up with bad buttons, wrong wellies and loo paper everywhere! Then Toby gets cross. What do you get if you cross a mighty Tyrannosaurus rex with a fearsome Triceratops?

With a hilarious rhyming text and brilliant illustrations from Axel Scheffler, simply flip the pages to create some seriously silly mixed-up dinosaurs. Dinosaur fans will love this hilarious combination book with over possible prehistoric creations! In this beautifully illustrated book, children can learn about 13 different habitats — gardens, hedgerows, heathlands, woodlands, highlands, wetlands, the coastline, freshwater, seas and oceans, savannahs, jungles and mountains — and how they can be protected.

Filled with animal facts and plenty of creative little ways that nature enthusiasts can make a big difference. Alex hardly notices it, until the day he and his sister are pulled through the mirror, back into When Princess Lily and her friends find an abandoned baby kangaroo, they must look after the tiny joey and work out who is ruining the palace gardens at night. To solve this mystery the princesses will need a magic jewel, ninja skills and the special power that comes from true friendship!

But then things start to go missing from the stables and Alice and Secret must work together to catch a thief… Age: The hit series for pre-schoolers — over 3 million copies sold — is relaunching with a fresh new look! Now on easy-to-use white board! Now in board book! A starry, beautifully illustrated collection of favourite lullabies, rhymes and poems perfect for sharing at bedtime — with a sprinkling of silver foil on every page!

A tender and heart-warming story about friendship and belonging that is perfect for sharing on a frosty evening. One small boy wishes he had a Best Friend. And when he discovers a message written on a little paper boat, he finds that the perfect friend is sometimes the unlikeliest of all. A wonderfully moving tale about the importance of being true to yourself, with magical illustrations from Briony May Smith.

A little girl dreams of being a star, but, somehow, her big sister always seems to shine brighter. For her grandad she is a star and, as they gaze up at the night sky, he tells her a story that helps her find her own special way to shine. But The Dark soon reminds Rabbit of all the good things that he does. What about all the nocturnal animals, he asks. Los Angeles, USA Following on from The Velveteen Rabbit, published to great acclaim in , this beautiful Nosy Crow Classic will bring an old favourite to a new generation. But will the Darlings choose to stay in Neverland or return to London to grow up like normal children?

This richly illustrated, clothbound collection of nature poems will inspire and delight all year round. Featuring eight stand-up dolls, 40 different costumes with shoes, hats and headdresses, and a page full of sticker accessories! Press out the mother and daughter dolls, then pick which beautiful traditional costume to dress them in, using the easy fold-down tabs, before adding a hat or headdress and sticking on some accessories. From fabulous flamenco dresses to colourful kimonos, there are so many different costumes and cultures to discover. Make your own 3D Halloween decorations with this innovative activity board book with fantastic play value!

With stunning artwork from hugely talented Joey Chou, these simple die-cut shapes include witches, ghosts and a whole host of Halloween characters. They are easy to press out and slot together to create an eye-catching seasonal display. The book also includes 10 pages of frightfully fun activities, including songs, recipes, and plenty of things to make and do to keep little ones busy for hours during the spooky season! See the full series p. And her Bottom is not going to perform itself. How will she escape witch school THIS time? Max is ready to solve another case! The exciting second instalment in the middle-grade mystery series with plenty of fun and drama with a vintage crime feel.

Rehearsals start well, but soon some ghostly goings-on and talk of a family curse have the actors in a panic. Never fear — Max the detective cat is on the case, and his whiskers are prickling with suspicion that these strange events have more to do with jewels than ghouls… Also available p. Soon Denzel is immersed literally in an adventure involving a shark, a massive gorilla and lots and lots of evil ghosts. Each page is bursting with imaginative details. The first instalment of a gripping fantasy quartet from the prize-winning author of Tribute and Castle of Shadows.

Child of Air, Water, Earth or Fire: But for Storm, daughter of a father murdered by Water and a warrior mother claimed by Earth, there will be no easy destiny. The Elementals bestow her with a great and terrible gift. Storm has powers that no one, not even the island Elders, can understand.

And when the Drowned Ones — a savage band of pirates who roam the seas on floating towns — attack her island, will her powers help her to save the people she loves, or is her fate to betray everything she holds dear? Soon Storm faces a decision which will change her life — and that of everyone who lives on her island — forever. A special gift title in this bestselling, award-winning series for babies and toddlers. Scandi cool combines with a brilliant novelty to make a future classic. Adorable new Christmas title in this series of bright cloth books for babies combining colourful illustrations, simple words and crinkly, tactile pages.

A delightful gift package which works as a lift-the-flap concertina book and a wall frieze AND a play scene — from the award-winning Felt Flaps illustrator Ingela P Arrhenius. Open each page to see the shop fronts, then lift the flaps to peek inside the shop and the rooms above. And who has splashed himself with a hose?

A perfect book to share with very little ones. Great value gift package! Beautiful book-and-blocks pack presented in a chunky card box with a handle! Includes a small board book edition of The Big Balloon and nine picture blocks. This festive picture book includes a foiled front cover, making it an extra special gift for little ones. Soon, Pip starts to feel very ill indeed. Can you guess why? With eye-catching foil on every spread, this heartwarming winter tale of friendship and generosity is the perfect Christmas gift.

Fox loves to play, but his friends are worried about him. Each animal knows just what Fox should do, if only he would listen to them. When winter finally comes, Fox finds himself cold, hungry and all alone. Can a Christmas wish help him set things right? Sammy longs to fly with Santa on his sleigh, but when he accidentally causes mayhem in the workshop, it looks like he has lost his chance.

That is until, snoozing in a box, Sammy finds himself wrapped up as a Christmas parcel and bundled onto the sleigh with the other presents. How will Sammy escape? And how will he save the presents from two rotten robbers with plans to steal them all away? One frosty evening, a week before Christmas, Little Robin washes and irons seven warm vests for the chilly nights to come. But, as the days go by, he meets many friends who are shivering in the cold, and kindly offers them his vests to wear. By the time Christmas Eve arrives, however, there are no vests left and Little Robin finds himself all alone and cold!

That is, until a special someone arrives to reward his kindness. It smelled so good — oh me, oh my! But, dear oh dear, I have to say That pie was stolen clean away. Will they ever learn their lesson. Make your own 3D festive decorations with this innovative activity board book with fantastic play value! With over 20 unique and colourful designs, the press-out pieces can be simply slotted together to create bright and cheerful decorations. Each book also includes ten additional pages of festive activities, including songs, recipes and craft ideas.

Take an inspirational month-by-month journey through the seasons with this beautiful gift book. Beautifully illustrated by Elly Jahnz and written by nature-lover and wild swimmer Anna Wilson, this fantastic, fully illustrated guide to the year includes nature spotter guides, indoor and outdoor craft and activity ideas, seasonal recipes and celebrations of religious festivals and special days such as the 50th anniversary of the first moon landing. This gorgeous almanac will encourage young readers to connect with nature and the world around them. Alice can hardly believe that she and Secret have been invited to compete for a chance to show jump at the famous Olympia Christmas Horse Show!

Will Alice find a way to lead naughty, talented, amazing Secret as far as she dreams they can go? A gripping thriller, perfect for pre-teens, that will have young readers hooked. Sara hates Ben with a passion. So what if the poor little rich boy has run away? But as time passes and Ben shows no sign of coming back, Sara starts to wonder if something more sinister has happened to him….

The start of a beautifully illustrated, sparkly fantasy quartet full of magic, adventure and cute animals. The evil Shadow Witch wants to steal the Everchanging Lights right out of the sky! The Snow Sisters will need all their magic to stop her turning their home, the beautiful, icy island of Nordovia, dark forever. B-format paperback Cover Illustrator Location: East Sussex Inside Illustrator Location: Find out what reading level our books are using the key below from Lilac lowest to Dark Red highest band.

For the first time in this catalogue, we are including book band colours for many of our books. Lisa Jones and Edward Underwood ill. Combining colourful pictures, simple words and tactile pages, these charming little books are perfect for babies from birth. Includes a velcro buggy handle and presented in a sturdy box with crinkly pages.

Follow the vehicle on its journey! With a peekaboo die-cut on every page and rhyming text, children will enjoy saying what they can spy in every scene! Felt Flaps series Bestselling and award-winning hide-and-seek board book series with a felt flap on every spread — and a surprise mirror reveal on the final page!

Full of lots of friendly faces and familiar shops to spot, this giant lift-the-flap concertina book features an engaging text and vibrant artwork from Ingela P Arrhenius. Little readers will love helping Lois search for her friend Bob in this series of engaging, lift-the-flap board books. Aimed at the very young, each book features six real-life sounds that bring every picture to life. Designed for children who are just starting to talk, this series of fun lift-the-flap board books feature animals to spot, name and mimic. These bright and sturdy little board books are a gentle introduction to letter sounds and the alphabet sequence.

The hit series for toddlers with over 3 million copies sold! Rich in visual detail and featuring chunky sliders to push and pull, these robust board books inspire imaginative play. A lavish, large-format casebound book with robust mechanisms and flaps to lift — perfect for toddlers who love to play at being builders! This sing-along slider board book series is the ideal introduction to music for little ones! Includes a QR code with a vocal and instrumental version of the nursery rhyme. Each chunky board book in this new series has a friendly, rhyming tale and a big sound button — and an on-and-off function!

A series of high quality, robust touch-and-feel board books featuring bright art, rhyming text, a tactile feature on every spread and mirror on the final page. With sturdy board sliders to pull, cute characters and engaging stories, this series of chunky little peekaboo books is perfect for engaging the very young. Perfect for preschoolers, this series of rhyming flip-flap books has sturdy split pages, spiral binding and over crazy creatures to create!

Friendly farmyard tales from Axel Scheffler with a big sound button to press — and an on-and-off function! The funny, rhyming story of an intrepid little warthog who sets off on an ill-advised solo adventure. Featuring flaps, pull-outs and a die-cut cover, this inspiring book celebrates the creative possibilities and limitless joy of the simple cardboard box.

With stylish, engaging illustrations and large flaps to lift, this is an imaginative introduction to ancient Egypt. Published in collaboration with the British Museum. Over 2 million copies sold worldwide! This rhyming tale is packed with vehicle and animal noises for little ones to join in with. Featuring amazing objects from the British Museum, this series of captivating board books encourages curious little ones to engage with early learning concepts.

An exciting, new novelty board book series with cute gatefold flaps, die-cut holes and a surprise tactile ending. Baby and Me Emma Dodd Ideal for toddlers who enjoy playing mummies and babies, this interactive book has chunky pull-tabs and cosy touch-and-feel elements. Would you rather sail past a ferocious piranha fish or a truly terrifying crocodile? Journey through the scary jungle in this engaging lift-the-flap adventure story.

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In one easy move, these bright, bold and ingeniously packaged books can be transformed into fabulous 3D playmats, with pop-up buildings, pieces to play with, and cut-out characters. A Walk in the Countryside series With a gentle narrative, lovable animals and lots of nature to spot and name, this series introduces numbers, letters, colours and opposites — and are a great way of bringing children closer to nature! Published in collaboration with The National Trust. Marion Billet Spot-and-say fun for little ones! With fascinating detail on every spread and a simple, conversational narrative, these books are perfect for sharing.

Witty, sumptuously illustrated retellings of fairy tale favourites which are based on our highly acclaimed, multi-award-winning apps. Digger Dog loves to dig in this brilliant read-aloud romp with a fantastic foldout surprise at the end. Baxter dreams of starring in a book of his own in this amusing celebration of the joy of reading.

Perfect read-aloud rhyme and action-packed artwork full of comic detail make this series a picture book winner. Co fo ver llo to w. Tracey Corderoy Joe Berger ill. The charming combination of a fun witchy granny, rhyming text and stylish illustrations make these books a bewitching brew for all little people who like a sprinkling of magic on their stories.

This anteater is very hungry, but what on earth do anteaters eat? A fantastically funny picture book with a host of lovable animal characters. Who knew a trip to the zoo would cause such a hullabaloo? We do not make a happy pair, a mouse and bear with just one chair. A bold, stylishly illustrated picture book about learning to share at playtime — features a die-cut cover. There are SO many things you can do with a stick! This is a joyful celebration of imagination and creative play.

Packed with roaring, revving, racing dinosaurs, this series is perfect for the target toddler audience. What do weasels do all day? A highly original and laugh-out-loud picture book. In a galaxy fairly far away a fearless crew of furry animals are on a quest to find The Lost Nuts of Legend! A spooky and hilarious tale featuring zombie ducks and ghost cows as well as Frankenhorse and Donkula!

Starring a tidy troll and a loud loopy girl, this warm and witty tale celebrates our differences. With eye-catching foil on every spread, this seasonal story with a warm message is the perfect Christmas gift. HB 0 9 PB 0 3 Age: This lavishly illustrated series of collectible classics bring favourite tales to a new generation. With a fold-out feature, this multi-layered book is destined to be a much-requested bedtime story. Winner of the Waterstones Book Prize ! A fantastic, interactive book for sharing. Rabbit does NOT want to go to bed. So he decides to kidnap The Dark and pop him in a biscuit tin!

An inventive, entertaining story about how an imaginative rabbit outwits a wolf — with a glorious gatefold ending! A lavishly illustrated collection of nature poems — one for every day of the year. An enchanting series, perfect for young children about to start school. HB 1 6 PB 1 3 Age: A touching tale about the difficulties of growing up, brought to life by beautifully soft artwork. A little girl gazes up at the starry night sky wondering about her place in the world.

Her grandad tells her a story — the story of how the universe began,and of how everything is connected: Real-life stories with real heart! Pip and Posy are the best of friends most of the time! HB 1 4 October Age: The perfect gift for a toddler: Each plush measures approximately 20cm in height, is machine washable and is suitable for all ages.

A heart-warming bedtime picture book all about the love between a parent and child. Help a little lost firefly find her way home in this interactive picture book with vibrant neon artwork throughout. In this interactive book filled with vibrant neon artwork, help Leon the chameleon find a place to fit in. Featuring splashes of spot UV throughout, this interactive picture book encourages readers to get involved.

A stylish interactive picture book with bright, shiny spot-UV balloons throughout and a surprise birthday ending. A vibrant celebration of dinosaurs in all shapes and sizes, this is sure to be a family favourite! This funny, rhyming tale about a hedgehog who loses his prickles is perfectly accompanied by bright, witty illustrations.

A glorious pole-to-pole adventure around the world, full of comic detail and delightful characters. With stickers, press-out cards and activities on every page, these are great value and unique activity books. Innovative activity board books with press-out pieces and activities for songs, recipes and things to make and do.

Packed with facts about animals and their homes, these sticker books are perfect for young nature lovers. Is it a story book? Is it a doodle book? Press Out and Decorate series Create 3D decorations! Features 20 unique press-out designs with shimmering foil throughout. Gift Boxes to Colour and Make series 24 easy-to-assemble gift boxes with sparkling sticker labels — perfect for all ages to colour! Innovative and original colouring book format includes 24 unique card and envelope designs, plus a sheet of colourful stickers.

Features 13 animals and objects to create, beautiful art and nature poems — plus 50 sheets of origami paper! Read the haiku, enjoy the picture from the British Museum collection and then make the origami figure! Richly illustrated lift-the-flap books full of facts about nature. Fun and informative introductions to animal life cycles with a strong, clear narrative, friendly characters and fascinating facts.

HB 0 3 PB 0 0 Age: Hilarious split-page books featuring fascinating artefacts from the British Museum — over combinations! A gloriously illustrated, empowering book about 50 remarkable girls and women who changed the world. Find out how children live all around the world in this warm-hearted book with stylish artwork throughout. An illustrated, fact-filled book about different habitats around the world. A hilarious and fascinating look at what life was life for a child in ancient Egypt with humorous illustrations throughout.

Beautifully illustrated throughout, this classic annual guide connects readers with seasonal nature facts and activities. Are you ready to go wild on the river? The definitive guide to all things rivers, this book will teach you all you need to know, from skimming stones and catching a fish to building a raft and paddling in a kayak. And this book has all the tips and facts you could possibly need, plus loads of room to write, doodle and stick stuff in.

This book is published by Nosy Crow in collaboration with the National Trust nationaltrust. This book is published by Nosy Crow in partnership with the National Trust www. Brimming with great activities and useful information, this is the essential guide for anyone setting off on a trip to the river. You will also learn exactly what NOT to do, from getting caught in a current to slipping down a waterfall. Perfect for fans of Horrible Histories, this series combines comic writing, brilliant characters, exciting plotlines and lots of interesting facts. This quirkily comic series is packed with larger-than-life characters and all manner of disgusting delights!

The Grunts are back. And there are others out there who want the POGI for themselves. A laugh-out-loud series featuring ever-popular pugs!