The Lady in the Glove Box

  When I wait for her to do a spot of shopping I wait in it. When she’s getting ready to go out, I wait in it too, the sun like a lamp., with my stash of magazines: New Yorkers, National Geographics and that lady in the glove box, Olive Kitteridge. It is my loo, my library, my study, My five-seated reading room, My Chapman’s Homer. My car really takes me places.     Continue reading The Lady in the Glove Box

Where I Most Like to Read

  Whenever I go to the Health Clinic or the bank for a transaction or the shopping centre in the days approaching Easter or Xmas I always take a book with me in case I have to join a queue. A long wait without a book or magazine can be onerous. I read in other places too — libraries, on buses, in my bedroom but when I have a chunk of reading ahead of me — say, the last third of a novel — I dash down to the bank, the clinic or the shopping mall in search of the … Continue reading Where I Most Like to Read

The Lean

  I have a lean. I lean to the left. My friend leans to the right. I don’t mean a political lean. I mean an anatomical one. [it’s a little more pronounced after a few drinks]. Everyone has a peculiar walk, It may not be a lean, It may be more a lurch or a lunge. Our walk is distinctive to us as our thumb print. One day it may feature in a detective novel or in a real life murder case. I also have another peculiarity. I stir my coffee backwards. How do you stir your coffee? Continue reading The Lean


I know I will never write that great Russian novel. I cannot find my inner Tolstoy nor Dostoevsky. I know I will probably never write a novel. I’m too busy seeing the tree from the woods. Even short stories may be beyond me. A clutch of ten does not a short story writer make. The most I will ever write is a poem. I send them off. The postman comes but not for me. Epigrams. I’m good at epigrams. Oscar Wilde wrote a few. So did Groucho Marx. But they were already famous. I don’t really want to write a … Continue reading Blow