Category Archives: Writing

The heart of things

Last month I was lucky enough to appear at two book festivals. One of them, the Edinburgh International Book Festival, is indisputably the world’s largest and this year was its best year ever, with a record 225,000 visits to Charlotte … Continue reading

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Strange fruit

Tomorrow I leave for France for 10 days. This is a holiday that feels like it’s been a long time coming. The year so far has been one of hard domestic slog, clearing out my mother’s house in Kent and … Continue reading

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Connection men

In Russell Hoban’s extraordinary post-nuclear novel Riddley Walker, there are characters known as ‘connection men’, storytellers whose job it is to try and piece things together, reinforce the codes that bind their small communities, and at the same time make … Continue reading

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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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