The best way to travel India is by train, this series will explain to help you you can can check the Indian Railways Trains at a Glance timetable. Life is too good to waste time in airport departure lounges. That's why more and more travellers are discovering that the train is the ideal way to explore Europe. Sales of physical books increased 4% in the UK last year while ebook sales shrank by the same amount. Glance around a busy train carriage.
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Trains at a glance' is an annual publication produced by indian railways. It contains details of about trains in all parts of india including fares. It has all the. 'Trains at a glance' is an annual publication produced by indian railways, it is about the size of an A4 sheet of paper and has about pages, it contains details. SummerSpecial · Circulars · TAG- Oct June17 · TAG- Oct June16 · TAG_ · Coaching_Circulars · TAG_
As publishers get more comfortable with the day to day elements of eBook publishing — attention does seem to be turning to genres like kids eBooks, which has been underdeveloped to date. Many independent authors are writing and illustrating their own books and obtaining good sales rankings right alongside the major players. New devices like the Kindle have opened up new technical possibilities that were previously unavailable. The Rick Riordan series continues to do very well, but have we seen a breakout titles this year? So, taking the phenom that is Hunger Games out of the figures and looking more towards the mid and lower end of the market, we see growth. What is selling this year are fantasy series, similar but not as popular, as The Hunger Games, which had a movie that helped drive sales. This indicates that demand may still be there, just waiting to be activated by the right products.
Got picture books, anyone? So as much as us parents try to limit the amount of screen time the kids get — looks like we are being outsmarted! All these tablets require content. Our Customers Children's Publishers. Opportunity 1: Opportunity 2: Consider these statistics reported by UK telecoms regulator Ofcom: Related Post.
Vearsa September 23, Vearsa Academy eBook Markets to Watch: Indonesia Vearsa August 27, We would love if you joined the vearsa community today. If you have any questions or concerns at all please get in touch. Contact Us.
I recognize them and they probably recognize me. Sometimes, not often, I can see them from this side of the track. If not—like today—I can imagine them. Jess will be sitting with her feet up on the table out on the terrace, a glass of wine in her hand, Jason standing behind her, his hands on her shoulders. I can imagine the feel of his hands, the weight of them, reassuring and protective.
Sometimes I catch myself trying to remember the last time I had meaningful physical contact with another person, just a hug or a heartfelt squeeze of my hand, and my heart twitches.
I read somewhere that a train can rip the clothes right off you when it hits. Two to three hundred a year, they say, so at least one every couple of days.
The train stops at the signal as usual. I can see Jess standing on the patio in front of the French doors. I keep my eyes fixed on Jess, on her home, as the train starts to inch forward. I lived at number twenty-three Blenheim Road for five years, blissfully happy and utterly wretched.
That was my first home. Every day I tell myself not to look, and every day I look. Even though I remember so clearly how it felt that time I looked up and noticed that the cream linen blind in the upstairs bedroom was gone, replaced by something in soft baby pink; even though I still remember the pain I felt when I saw Anna watering the rosebushes near the fence, her T-shirt stretched tight over her bulging belly, and I bit my lip so hard, it bled.
I close my eyes tightly and count to ten, fifteen, twenty. We roll into Witney station and out again, the train starting to pick up pace as suburbia melts into grimy North London, terraced houses replaced by tagged bridges and empty buildings with broken windows.
The closer we get to Euston, the more anxious I feel; pressure builds; how will today be? On its side, someone has painted: I think about the bundle of clothes on the side of the track and I feel as though my throat is closing up. Life is not a paragraph, and death is no parenthesis. I live in a smart ish , new ish block situated at the point where the commercial heart of the place starts to bleed into the residential outskirts, but it is not my home.
My home is the Victorian semi on the tracks, the one I part-owned. Cathy and I were friends at university. Half friends, really, we were never that close.
She lived across the hall from me in my first year, and we were both doing the same course, so we were natural allies in those first few daunting weeks, before we met people with whom we had more in common.
But in my hour of need she happened to have a spare room going and it made sense. And that was nearly two years ago. She makes you notice her niceness. Her niceness is writ large, it is her defining quality and she needs it acknowledged, often, daily almost, which can be tiring. I feel it in the kitchen, where we jostle for space when cooking our evening meals. I feel it when I sit beside her on the sofa, the remote control firmly within her grasp.
The only space that feels like mine is my tiny bedroom, into which a double bed and a desk have been crammed, with barely enough space to walk between them.
I have lost control over everything, even the places in my head. I could wish for a storm, but the sky is an insolent blank, pale, watery blue. I wipe away the sweat on my top lip. Silly, I know.
The curtains are open downstairs but the French doors are closed, sunlight reflecting off the glass. The sash window upstairs is closed, too. Jason may be away working. Jess, with her bold prints and her Converse trainers and her beauty, her attitude, works in the fashion industry.
Or perhaps in the music business, or in advertising—she might be a stylist or a photographer.
I can see her now, in the spare room upstairs, music blaring, window open, a brush in her hand, an enormous canvas leaning against the wall. I suppose I started noticing them about a year ago, and gradually, as the months went past, they became important to me. And Jess just goes with Jason, and it goes with her. It fits her, pretty and carefree as she is. My eyes and throat itch. I look at the man in the seat opposite mine. He is about my age, early to midthirties, with dark hair, greying at the temples.
Sallow skin. He has a MacBook, paper-thin, open in front of him. Or just thinking deeply. Writing an important email to a colleague at the office in New York, or a carefully worded break-up message to his girlfriend.
He looks up suddenly and meets my eye; his glance travels over me, over the little bottle of wine on the table in front of me. He looks away. He finds me distasteful. I am not the girl I used to be.
One night last week, when I left my room to get myself a glass of water, I overheard Cathy talking to Damien, her boyfriend, in the living room. I stood in the hallway and listened. Cathy was out when I got home, so I went to the off-licence and bought two bottles of wine.
A good, healthy meal. I sliced through the top of my finger while chopping the onions. I must have gone to the bathroom to clean it up and gone to lie down for a while and just forgotten all about it, because I woke up around ten and I could hear Cathy and Damien talking and he was saying how disgusting it was that I would leave the kitchen like that.