Category Archives: Writing

Reading matters

A circular from the Society of Authors dropped into my inbox yesterday morning. Although the theme was not a new one, I stopped and read it carefully. The Society of Authors is the unaffiliated trade union that represents around 9,000 … Continue reading

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Hurley burley

The hurlymans are still with me (see Day of the Door). I’m on my way back from Cornwall where I have just spent four days in a house overlooking an entirely deserted sweep of beach with no other human habitation … Continue reading

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Train of thought

While waiting for the train this morning I was speaking to a recently retired neighbour who now lives most of the year on the Greek island of Skiathos. ‘They’re really in a bind now,’ he said. ‘I know,’ I said. … Continue reading

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The Day Of The Door

On Monday evening as I walked round the Other Worlds exhibition at Oxford’s Story Museum and marveled at the creativity that had gone into the 25 installations, the thought I kept returning to was the astonishing power of our imaginations … Continue reading

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Other Worlds

This coming Monday evening the whole of Rochester House, the old Oxford central telephone exchange and mail sorting office, will come alive after many years of disuse. Its three rambling, empty buildings, linked around a courtyard, will fill with people … Continue reading

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Tongue-tied

It’s unpleasant to feel a language slipping from one’s grasp. There was a time when I was a confident French speaker. I was taught it very well at an early age by an inspired teacher who showed us large pictures of … Continue reading

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Into the light

Today I felt like a bear emerging from hibernation. I left the house at six-thirty to catch the early Edinburgh train. It was a crystal clear morning, fields and roofs dusted with a light frost. Cock pheasants preened themselves in … Continue reading

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The Witness

When I came back to Scotland in 1990 after living in London for 20 years it seemed like a different country to the one I had left. The spirit of John Knox had finally been banished from the streets of … Continue reading

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Close encounter

In December 1972 I quit my job at Hatchards bookshop in Piccadilly and flew to Argentina with my girlfriend. There we met up with 30 other travellers of all nationalities and stripes who had signed up for a trip with … Continue reading

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Breaking up is hard to do

I’ve been dismembering one of my books, painstakingly taking it apart, page by page, so that each comes away from the glue of the spine cleanly, a perfect rectangle. It’s a strange, not entirely comfortable, feeling. The book in question … Continue reading

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