<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4069773</id><updated>2011-07-07T22:16:54.245Z</updated><title type='text'>Dreamland</title><subtitle type='html'>My life and everything else.

So here is a memorable trip to Moscow around the time of the October Revolution, 1993.</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://julianmoseley_dreamland.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4069773/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://julianmoseley_dreamland.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>julianmoseley</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01579557901609318423</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>1</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4069773.post-107658014333125166</id><published>2005-10-27T21:55:00.001Z</published><updated>2011-01-22T12:05:08.555Z</updated><title type='text'></title><summary type='text'>Mother RussiaPart 1Flew in from Miami Beach, American Airlines. Didn't sleep a wink last night. All the way I was thinking about ... well... my mother dying in hospital in Yorkshire. Her voice on the phone had indicated something I couldn't place immediately. "Come and see me.... soon Julian," she confided. This wasn't a dimly remembered catch phrase from the Music Hall. It was something much </summary><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4069773/posts/default/107658014333125166'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/4069773/posts/default/107658014333125166'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://julianmoseley_dreamland.blogspot.com/2005_10_23_archive.html#107658014333125166' title=''/><author><name>julianmoseley</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01579557901609318423</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author></entry></feed>
