It turns out the place we stopped for the night was a public park.
I’m late for dinner again, but this time it’s not my fault. There’s a mansplainer in my way.
I began writing this book shortly after the end of my presidency—after Michelle and I had boarded Air Force One for the last time and traveled west for a long-deferred break.
Most morning, my husband, Doug, wakes up before me and reads the news in bed.
IT TOOK BOBBY a week to decide where to park. It had to be close to the wedding, but not too close.
Twenty-Five years ago, Sam Neill wrote the introduction to this book’s predecessor, Timeless Land.
As I reach for the doorbell, my phone bleeps with a text and my head instantly fills with a roll call of possibilities.
DEVON MONROE TORE HIS EYES off the two dead bodies in the powder-blue Bentley convertible, top down, idling not twenty yards away, and glanced at his best friend.
‘Normal is a cycle on a washing machine’ is something my dad always told me.
As the new year of 1910 moved closer to its second month, the world marvelled that there had been so few deaths in Paris when the River Seine rose more than eight metres and flooded the city.
The sickle moon had just slipped below the western horizon when the file of mounted men emerged from the trees.
On the day I was born, 3rd August 1986, ‘The Edge of Heaven’ by Wham! was number one.