by Thomas Fryd Down at the south-west corner of his lot, which incidentally is a double lot, snuggles a friend’s glasshouse. Partially screened off from his dwelling by a hedge of purple lilacs it is his haven of refuge, from the bustle and troubles of a restless world. A castle within an estate, lacking but the moat and drawbridge. On a placard nailed to an inside panel of the greenhouse door, are pasted numerous clippings and data. Some are freshly stuck there while others are soiled and f