Välkommen Hedvig!

Har ju alldeles glömt att skriva här.. att vi har fått hem en hundvalp!
Hon är en Irish softcoated wheaten terrier och heter Hedvig.
Hon fyllde 13 veckor igår. Jag/ vi är fodervärd till henne, vilket känns skönt eftersom jag lider av astma/
allergi. Känner av en del med henne, men det var väntat. Tror det kommer bli bättre då vi flyttat till
huset eftersom hon dels inte får vara på övervåningen där (där vi sover, nu är hon i vårt sovrum mest hela tiden) och vi dels har en stor trädgård att släppa ut henne i.
Så är min lägenhet, som jag ska ha kvar, allergifri. Eller ja, så gott som, eftersom hundpartiklar förstås följer med i kläder osv, men det blir ju inte alls så koncentrerat som i det hem hon bor i.

We´ve gotten a puppy! Her name is Hedvig and she is an Irish softcoated wheaten terrier.

Mina pälsklingar Hedvig, Charlie och Romeo.

What is The Goblin Market?

And there persists those tales of the odd people who emerge with each new moon. Remote towns and villages that dot many maps whisper of the same strange occurrence and I am at a loss to deny that these are simple country yarns.

First there is the scent – an exotic and displaced fragrance noticed when encroaching on locations believed uninhabited or forgotten; from ancient ruins that crumble and groan with time like stone ghosts to forests that whisper and change with an hour’s passing.

Then there are the sounds – the siren, calliope notes calling to the townspeople like an arriving carnivale with seduction echoing in every voice and musical note.

The place is packed with stalls, caravans, oddities and wonders, all drowning under a heavy fog of dread and danger that becomes even more palpable with your arrival.

Goblins. The same word is whispered in connection with the purveyors, performers, and vendors of these strange gatherings. Yet, gentle readers, these are not the monstrous fey-kind described in many tales invoking mischief or malice – in fact; they look very much the way we do.

On first glance, you would think them to be a peculiar troupe of performers acting out some macabre drama or perverse comedy. Their clothing is an unsettling combination of colors, patterns, and adornments contrasted by age and blackness that is better suited for a funeral procession: a terribly festive and almost circus-like funeral procession.

Some wear masks, some wear veils, but all hide behind their wanton and surreal inhumanity. Stranger yet are the ones in masks crafted from porcelain or dried bone that tend and nurture this misbegotten garden of discordant commodities and delights. They are Management.

Goblins. The Autumn People. The Outsiders. The Strangers. The Yellow Eyed Kind. Those from the Other Side of the Mirror. Goblins.

These accounts speak of the black miracles they advertise. They know all of your wildest dreams, your darkest desires, and most perverse fantasies – and they have it all for sale.

Do not believe their bargains. They are all true. Do not take fruit from them. The seeds will always remain within you. Do not complain to Management. You will only be met with silence.

Do not go to The Goblin Market.

They want what you have. They want you to take their place in the Mirror.

Professor Arthur Blackwell