Hello, I’m Shirin

I was raised in a garden bungalow where the day began with the sound of the pluckers’ baskets being counted at the weighing shed. Tea was not a drink then. It was weather, work and the smell of every house we visited.

Now I write a small packet of a letter every other Saturday. Each one tells you how long it takes to read and what is inside: a garden, a cup to brew, a person, or a flavour to look for.