Non-fiction writing by me


Two grandfathers. One tall, straight, cheerful. Always sunny. One, short, slumped, slightly mournful, slightly sad. They had both been through the War.

The tall one pulled his comrades out of the water when the landing craft beached at Normandy, dragged a few of the drowning and wounded up the beach at Normandy through a hail of bullets. This one came back to work at Watneys, but never drank. Retirement was never enough, he got a job at Tescos in the Arndale; talk to anyone, friends with anyone. The hospital screwed up and he died young at sixty-two. …

An Early Memory

The trouble with an early memory is knowing where it begins. What is actual memory, something concrete, real, beyond just disconnected images and impressions?

One of my earliest memories dates from perhaps three years old. My mother pushed me along in a buggy, down a hilly, grey London street near where we lived then.  The buggy’s rain hood pulled up left me deeply sheltered not just to the elements but most of the world beyond. My mother stopped, in conversation with a woman. A friend, by their tone. Much of the conversation was about me, but didn’t involve me. Under the rain hood, I was completely unable to contribute. …

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