Stations is a new anthology that will be published at the end of November. It was dreamed up by the fresh and quirky young publishing house, Arachne Press. And I’m glad to say that one of the stories in Stations was written by me. Details about the official launch at the Brunel Museum in Rotherhithe on Sunday the 2nd of December (at which I will be reading) can be found here.
This all started when I responded to a call for short stories on the Arachne Press website. Each of the stories had to relate in some way to one of the stations on the section of the London Overground which drops southward from Highbury & Islington Station down to New Cross. I knew Highbury & Islington well, and so I sent along a story that was set in and around that station. Continue reading
I have just been sipping a white wine on the bench outside my door, contemplating how my move to the countryside has meant that I have exchanged the gentle, slurring noise of the M25 for the rushing urgency of the beck which churns its way along the valley not thirty yards from my front door. And the incredibly insistent hum of what sounds like thousands of bees in the honeysuckle which grows up the wall of our cottage. Continue reading
I have sadly neglected this blog in favour of my other one. Today I am stating my intention to change that, with this short post.
It isn’t a lack of interest. I have several half-written posts for this blog. Interruptions arrive, and then the posts get filed half completed. I think maybe I am aiming to write too much each time. For the time being, I will focus upon fragments and moments; on small thoughts rather than on longer arguments.
Please take this photo of some incredibly pale and delicate daffodils in my garden as a frail flag, heralding further musings from me.
Daffodils in the garden
They remind me of a painting on the wall of the bedroom at Monk’s House, in Rodmell, Sussex. Continue reading
I was born in a suburb of Manchester, in the northwest of England. When I was three, my family moved to Macclesfield, a town about twenty miles south east of the city. We lived in a large, square house, at the top of the road that leads straight up from the town centre and out towards Buxton. It was less than a mile from our house to the boundary of the Peak District National Park. At the back of our garden, there was a wooden, five-bar gate, and beyond that there were fields with cows and sheep in them, bounded by the uneven grey lines of dry-stone walls. We went to Goyt Valley for Sunday walks, and to screech out loud in agonised delight as we paddled in ice-cold streams.
In our garden, there was an extremely tall beech tree, Continue reading
I have just entered the world of blogging. About forty minutes ago, to be precise. Please come back in about 24 hours when I have finished customising the space under the beech tree.
Looking forward to blogging with you.