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We're All Going On A Summer Holiday

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It’s that time again: the holiday. Or a holiday, I should say. I hesitate to make it sound more momentous than it is. Holidays for me have never been great set-piece events, carefully rationed out in annual quotas, as they are for most respectable people. I’ve always taken the view that if an opportunity for a few days away presents itself, it should be grabbed — like a reduced pork pie on a supermarket counter. That said, my partner Brayden has a proper job. You know, emails, policies, and somebody called Deborah in HR who approves his holiday requests. So we can’t just swan off as and when. We have to pick our moment, like a vicar choosing his text. This year, aside from a quick week in New York which barely counts — more an exercise in walking and ordering coffee wrong — we’ve not been away. So we’re off next Saturday. Madeira. Now, Madeira — if I’m being honest — has always existed for me primarily as a punchline in Up Pompeii — that wonderful seventies sitcom where Frankie Hower...
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Fear No More the Heat of the Sun

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Fear No More the Heat of the Sun (Cymbeline Act IV sc2) Living on a boat, as we do, you become rather more aware of the weather than your average house-dweller. They check an app and think “Showers. I’ll wear my cagoule.” We, meanwhile, live it. We hear it. We occasionally have to mop it up with an old towel and a resigned expression. In winter, we go full cosy. There’s the reliable hum of central heating, the cheer of a decent wood-burner, and the comforting percussion of rain on a cambered roof. It’s like living inside one of those nostalgic Channel 5 Christmas films—only without the snow budget or the Canadian actors pretending to be British. There’s a smugness in being warm when the world outside looks like a scene from Chernobyl: The Musical. But come spring, we begin to crave the change. A proper sunny day—deck doors open, light pouring in, shirtsleeves and sunglasses at 6pm—feels like reward for good behaviour. Recently, we’ve had a string of such days. The kind of late s...
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To Read to Sleep

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I’ve always read in bed. Always. For as long as I can remember, really—since before the age when memories begin to settle into things you could recount. It’s never felt like a habit. More like an instinct. A deeply ingrained, highly enjoyable ritual, as natural as brushing your teeth, only infinitely more rewarding. In the little back bedroom of my parents’ house—next to their shops in the Soviet Socialist Republic of South Yorkshire—my first lamp stood on a marble-topped wash-hand stand. The only other furniture was my bed and a chest of drawers that looked like it had given up trying. The lamp itself was a silver lady, balancing on one leg, arm raised to the heavens, in the manner of the Rolls-Royce Spirit of Ecstasy, only this one had a perforated purple lampshade and an air of resignation. It was by her light that I discovered my first loves: Enid Blyton, the Fife-Finder Outers, the Seven Seeker Uppers, and Alfred Hitchcock Investigates—anything in a series. I was mad for a serie...
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Finding Lomax (Or, Love in the Sainsbury’s Car Park)

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For the second time in my life, I have bought a new car. I say that with the kind of pride usually reserved for first-time parents or those who manage to grow tomatoes in hanging baskets. Most of my twenties were spent driving my dad’s cast-offs — including a white Ford Escort estate, which felt less like a car and more like a penance. I ask you: a white Ford Escort estate. It was less “motor vehicle” and more “mobile filing cabinet.” Then came a series of small, second-hand affairs: a green 2CV that got me through a year in Stratford — though the first time I pressed the accelerator, it went through the floor like a cartoon. That was followed by a bright orange Mini called Sebastian who gamely carried me through late-night rehearsals and even later-night chips in Soho. After Sebastian, there was Tristram Polo — a tank by comparison. Tristram was the scene of a minor disagreement with the law over the alcohol content of a bottle of Pinot Grigio. He was sold off quietly and cheaply, li...
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A Stay Away

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Last week we had a night away in Rotherham's only boutique Hotel while attending a fundraiser for Grimm and Co. This is the review I posted on Trip Advisor. Trying to be a good read while also warning people of the experience. Trip Advisor dont like reviews that are "not relevant to your stay" so they asked me to edit it. I did, but thought the real thing deserved a wider audience Hotel Review: The George Wright Boutique Hotel, Rotherham Three stars for effort, two for execution, and one for the bath on a plinth. As the patron of a children’s charity based in Rotherham—my home town—I occasionally return to support local events, and recently found myself back for a gala dinner in aid of children’s literacy. And where better to stay than Rotherham’s sole stab at central boutique accommodation: The George Wright Hotel, tucked coyly behind the High Street as though slightly ashamed of itself. The first challenge is simply getting in. The main entrance is a narrow alleywa...
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A Birthday Homily by Me, for Me

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Well, here we are. Sixty-eight. Not one of your grandstanding ages. Not a nice, neat multiple of ten, not a coming-of-age, not an “over-the-hill”—though, let’s be honest, the hill is well and truly behind me now, and I’ve been strolling down the other side for a good while. But sixty-eight, I think, is a respectable sort of age. It’s solid. It’s lived-in. It’s like a comfortable old armchair—the stuffing’s gone a bit, but it still holds together, and when you sit in it, it feels like home. The thing about birthdays is that people expect you to look back. To tot it all up, weigh your successes against your failures, and see if you come out ahead. And I suppose at sixty-eight, I’m happy to say I do. Just about. There have been some personal lows—times when life gave me a bit of a kicking and didn’t even have the decency to let me get my breath back before the next one came along. But there have also been highs, and I find those tend to linger longer in the memory. At sixty-eight, the...
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Bob-a-Job and the Art of Keeping Busy

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One of the more vivid memories of my childhood—apart from the time my mother tried to pass off a steamed sponge pudding as a birthday cake—is Bob-a-Job Week. It was a fixture of my existence as a Cub Scout, along with short trousers in winter and an unconvincing ability to tie knots. For those unfamiliar, a bob was a shilling (or twelve old pence, which, to anyone under forty, will sound like the sort of currency that required a wheelbarrow to transport). A job was exactly that—a task, a chore, an activity that adults could have quite easily done themselves but were instead willing to delegate to small boys in woggles for a negligible fee. The setup was simple: for one week in the school holidays, our Cub Pack would be set loose upon the village, clutching work cards, a sheaf of yellow stickers, and an earnest little speech from Akela about the virtues of public service. The aim was to secure as many Bob-a-Jobs as possible—anything from sweeping a garden path to washing a car or, i...
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