claytoncast

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...

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...

February has been a month of small victories. The fire has stayed in overnight. The canal hasn’t frozen. We have, against all odds, acquired houseplants. Winter on Scout, our widebeam boat, is not a matter of making do. It is, in fact, a very good life—one of warmth, ritual, and a steady supply of tea. We are not hardy survivalists, braving the elements with nothing but grit and a thermal vest. The fire, tended with the kind of care usually reserved for pedigree dogs, keeps the cabin warm, and the mornings—far from being the teeth-chattering ordeal some imagine—are quite pleasant. Brayden, braver of the two of us, is first up, stirring the embers and setting the kettle on, while I remain in bed, offering moral support from under the duvet. Outside, the world goes about its business. Ducks skid across the canal like poorly trained ice skaters. Dog-walkers in hats with bobbles stomp past, hands buried deep in pockets. Inside, we drink coffee and discuss whether the stove needs anoth...

How wonderful it is to be drawing to the end of January. Not, I should say, because I’m one to wish away time—no, I wouldn’t dream of it. But January always does seem a bit of a slog, doesn’t it? I’m well aware it may sound ungrateful to admit it, especially when I’ve had rather a lot to occupy me this month: two conferences, a handful of radio jobs, and even a couple of excellent nights out at the theatre. (I must mention Kyoto at Soho Place, which was not just good, but beyond brilliant. The kind of production that lingers.) And yet, I find the knowledge that February is peering round the corner rather heartening. There’s something in that first turning of the calendar year, the blank pages of January, that feels slightly unsettling. Too much time spent not quite knowing where one stands. Of course, for freelancers like me, that sense of uncertainty has its own peculiar sting. A busy Christmas season is one thing, but a January devoid of bookings—well, that’s quite another. It does ...

It was Christmas Eve, and everything was exactly as it should be. Brayden and I had returned from a Roman spa by the Strand, feeling utterly relaxed. The tree was decorated, presents wrapped, and we were dressed for dinner out. All was calm and bright, until my phone buzzed. A notification from Chase Bank informed me that someone had attempted to order £6.99 worth of Domino’s pizza in Liverpool. Odd, given that I’d spent the afternoon in a eucalyptus-scented haze nowhere near Liverpool. Moments later, my phone rang. No Caller ID. “Hi, this is Nigel from Chase Fraud Department.” Nigel. Not a name that inspires confidence, but the alert had just popped up, so I stayed on the line. He explained that someone had tried to set up a standing order for £350 to Amazon. “Was that you?” Certainly not, though given my spending habits, it was almost plausible. Nigel then asked for my account balances “to secure them for the record.” A crafty script, but something about his tone—a little too ba...

The prospect of Christmas has always filled me with excitement. As a small child, December felt endless, each day marked by opening tiny chocolate-filled doors on the advent calendar, counting down how many sleeps remained, and sneaking peeks in the back of my parents’ wardrobes to confirm if the Chad Valley Bandit Chase game had really arrived. That anticipation hasn’t faded with age—in fact, it has evolved. For many years, December has meant not just Christmas but also a holiday, sometimes both rolled into one. Yet, my ideal Christmas remains one spent at home. Last year, Brayden and I celebrated our first Christmas together aboard our boat, and it was nothing short of delightful. We enjoyed each other’s company, took a refreshing Christmas Day walk, indulged in a healthy Christmas lunch (well, the walk was healthy!), and topped the holiday off with a Boxing Day visit to the theatre. But the real cherry on top was a four-day trip to New York after the festivities. This year, howeve...