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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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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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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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