Category Archives: Unreliable memories

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 →

Before six o’clock on an August morning and there is the sound of children’s voices coming down the road. Perhaps it is the warm weather prompting people to venture out early. With the windows open, the morning news is audible … Continue reading →

Sunday evening – once it would have seemed a moment of disappointment. Weekends in Somerset in my teenage years had a format.  It was a format that cannot have been prolonged or frequent, but which seemed to have a quality … Continue reading →