A toast is in order! The Spring issue of Slightly Foxed has arrived, and with it our ninth birthday. We’re full of gratitude for all our readers, without whom we couldn’t be flourishing into a tenth year in print. The spring crop of SF is a flourish indeed, with two paperbacks and another of our delightful pocket hardbacks to add to the shelves.
The celebratory mood seems to be spreading this month, not least because of the longer days and the chance to dig out our sunglasses and throw off our fur coats. The office dog is leading the team on this last point: he’s enjoying his daily strolls around Hoxton Square, sporting a rather fetching new haircut. And we’re rather missing the spring look of the old office, where the daffodils would be nodding on the terrace by now. We do, however, have plans to cultivate a little city garden on the fire escape: one that will leave plenty of room for fleeing in an emergency (of course), but will, we hope, make such an escape more like skipping through a pastoral idyll.
In this month’s taste of Slightly Foxed there’s little sight of any idylls as we plunge into the world of Orwell’s down time as a plongeur in Paris with Christopher Robbins. We’re thankful that our after-supper washing up doesn’t take thirteen hours, although we do sympathise that it does take considerably longer depending on how many quarts of wine we’ve had.