Category: Writing the Long Way Around

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Not one of the magic sisters

Writing The Long Way Around

For various reasons, financial and wardrobe restrictions not withstanding, I tend not to attend many soirees, candlelit suppers, receptions, launches and exhibitions. I used to and I miss them, so it was very nice to be sent –  through the post mark you not online, an invitation to raise a glass to James Robertson, the newly appointed writer in residence for our course. Apart from the staggeringly bad canapes that looked as though even Iceland (not the country) had refused them for their frozen dinner pack – 6 courses for 16 people for only £3.99, the evening was most enjoyable. … Continue reading Not one of the magic sisters

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A Man of Letters

Writing The Long Way Around

Drying my hair this morning, I got to thinking about Patrick. Don’t ask me why. I met Patrick about 12 years ago when I was opening a restaurant in Portobello Road in London. It was about two days before our opening and as I was arguing with two electricians, the coke bitch that was the fiancée of the restaurant owner, a Brazilian kitchen porter who swore he was legally in this country after seeking asylum and that the photo of the different man on his passport was ok with immigration, the front door opened to show a grey haired, grey bearded … Continue reading A Man of Letters

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Writer in Residence

Writing The Long Way Around

We had all been sworn to secrecy in case we leaked it, but I can now announce the appointment of James Robertson as the first writer in residence for the MA Creative Writing course. As a class we knew that the post had been created but we did not know who the writer was until last week. I spent a happy few days pretending it was Stephen King, which is not to say that I am disappointed with Mr Robertson at all and I have moved his novel The Testament of Gideon Mack from its previous position to the number … Continue reading Writer in Residence

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Postcards from an Existential Lady

Writing The Long Way Around

I once knew a lady who ran a very successful private gentleman’s club.  It was terribly exclusive and the only advertising was a series of artful postcards displayed in selected telephone boxes around London. All other business was a result of very good word of mouth. The lady was among many, many things responsible for introducing me to Jean Paul Sartre. I had no idea what she was talking about then and Sartre remains at arm’s length from my periphery now, but in my defence it is quite difficult to discuss existentialism when one of you is wearing a bad wig and … Continue reading Postcards from an Existential Lady