Category Archives: Unreliable memories

In Somerset, it is the season of fairs: Bridgwater, the greatest of them all, will take place next week. Our local fair was at Long Sutton.  It was a funfair small enough to fit onto the village green, but it … Continue reading →

Apparently, Larry the cat at Number Ten Downing Street is the only permanent resident. It was a story that prompted speculation by the presenter of the radio programme as to how long cats lived. Sadly, for those with an affection … Continue reading →

A friend suggested writing a memoir. ‘What of?’ I asked. More important than memoirs are memories. Memoirs might, or might not, interest someone else (mine would fall into the latter category). Memories, on the other hand, can be deeply important … Continue reading →

My nephews return to school next week. The all too short English summer holidays are drawing to a close. Having attempted on various occasions to borrow from them things like a rubber or a pencil sharpener, I realise that teenage … Continue reading →

My oldest nephew is thirty-four this year. He has a wisdom beyond his years – his idea of a perfect weekend is to pitch his bivouac on a river bank and fish for carp or pike. Once, I would have … Continue reading →