It’s a while since I thought about a piece of music, so, let me remedy that. And it’s perhaps the wrong time of year for this piece, ah, but so what? I wrote this piece years ago after a freezing cold winter’s day at work. So, here we go. There’s something altogether mad about Winter. … Continue reading Vivaldi’s Winter – A Reflection in Three Movements
Category: My Words
Thoughts and memories-a-plenty!
Foundations Built on Sand: The Perils of Planning Without Infrastructure
Preface: Why I’m Writing This I didn’t set out to become some kind of armchair town planner, nor do I claim to possess a degree in civil engineering, but I do possess a pair of eyes, a memory, and a moderately reliable toilet. And in recent years, all three have been sorely tested. This piece … Continue reading Foundations Built on Sand: The Perils of Planning Without Infrastructure
Maugham’s Cakes and Ale: On the Sacred Art of Not Taking Oneself Too Seriously
There are books one reads, and books one is quietly read by. Somerset Maugham’s Cakes and Ale falls into the latter camp - it observes you from over the rim of its brandy glass, raises a bemused eyebrow, and says absolutely nothing. Not because it’s shy, but because it knows better than to interrupt the theatre of … Continue reading Maugham’s Cakes and Ale: On the Sacred Art of Not Taking Oneself Too Seriously
Folie à Deux – On Madness Made Mutual (with Brontëan Echoes)
Preface - On the Madness of Love, and the Love of Madness Few things are more dangerous than a person who agrees with you completely. Especially if you're wrong. And doubly so if they are too. I recently re-read Wuthering Heights - which is, as far as I’m concerned, the great British novel of shared madness. … Continue reading Folie à Deux – On Madness Made Mutual (with Brontëan Echoes)
Bogs, Beatrix, and the Bleak Sublime: A Lake District Lament
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a man in possession of a holiday must be in want of a breakdown. And so, with great dramatic flair and the sort of overpacked boot that could clothe a minor Balkan militia, I’m off to the Lake District - a land where Wordsworth wandered lonely as a … Continue reading Bogs, Beatrix, and the Bleak Sublime: A Lake District Lament
Wording 