A present is a theory about a person. My early theories were shiny and wrong. These are the ones I have seen still in use when the thank-you has cooled, which is the only evidence I now accept.

The Lego turtle is finished in a sitting and looks, on a shelf, as though someone thought. Recipients tend to build it. This is rare.

the hummingbird was built on an evening otherwise owed to correspondence. It now interrupts the eye, as intended.

Back to Black is played to its last note. The room afterwards is not the room one started in.

One song was the plan. Dolly took the afternoon, and the afternoon was improved.

Verity is not for a waiting room. I missed a station. The novel does not do polite pacing.

The Correspondent is the novel I lend and then miss, as one misses a guest who knew how to sit quietly.

A bottle whose lid keeps a promise does not weep into a bag. The water is still cold when the afternoon requires it.

Washable pens released the sofa, when the sofa was accidentally recruited. Walls remain a separate matter.

A clip-on light keeps its beam on the page. The person who wishes to sleep is no longer asked to vote.

The closer product notes, should you want them: here, here, here, here.

When the choice fails me, I buy the turtle. It has not yet missed.