Sermons go to work on us in strange, almost inexpressible, ways. Sometimes, what we recall years after the event are not specific words or illustrations, or even the identity of the speaker. Instead, what lingers is an impression made upon us, a feeling of conviction or excitement which remains even if the detail of what was said has not stayed in our long-term memory… Read More »
One of the strangest parts of growing up was always getting the strangest look when I gave my name when introducing myself. I guess back then there were many confused British people who couldn’t put a Pakistani together with an English name. Born in London in 1984… Read More »
Losing Things, One by One
In the first year after Shoko’s diagnosis, life continued much as normal. She could still manage day-to-day activities – looking after the house, cooking, sewing, writing letters, cycling here and there… Read More »
Who is this book by?
When I started writing this book, the very first question I asked myself was not the usual Who is this book aimed at? but Who is this book by? Not because I’m having some sort of identity crisis, but more because there are a number of different perspectives from which… Read More »
My great-grandmother is a remarkable woman. Everyone says so: her daughter (who is my grandmother), Gramps (who is my grandfather and her son-in-law), Dad (who is her grandson), Mom and all her friends and everyone else who knows her. So it must be true… Read More »
Matthew Gold woke with a start at four o’clock on the morning of the 11th March. His body was bathed in a cold sweat and his heart was beating rapidly.
There were three pages missing. The last three pages. The pages that made sense of the story… Read More »
ENGLAND, MAY 1950
Mum looked odd, kind of pasty, as she opened the front door. I slung my heavy, half-term satchel with my dirty sports kit in it onto the hall floor. I hung my panama hat and blazer on the coat stand as usual, but instead of heading for the kitchen with promises of supper, Mum tugged at the hem of my skirt, fiddled with my tie and plaits and looked me up and down. Read More »
Friday 22nd December 2006
Around Christmas, the Psychology Department becomes empty and eerily unfamiliar; even the smell seems to revert to its former use as a psychiatric ward. I was the only one in on the Friday before Christmas – the ‘skeleton cover’ required by management over the holiday period. Appropriately named, as it happened.
I checked the waiting area at 10.20 am for my new client. She was already there… Read More »
His Early Days
The weather was typically stormy in the tempestuous channel between the Isle of Man and Great Britain on the night of 19th November 1830. The cruel winds drove the steam packet St George on to St Mary’s Rock in Douglas Bay. The wrecking of the steamship was one of Hugh Stowell Brown’s earliest memories… Read More »
The man in the Mazda sedan tightens his grip on the wheel and flicks an anxious glance at the rear-view mirror. He’s heading north on the N1 highway, eating up the miles through the flat grasslands of South Africa’s Limpopo Province. In a couple of hours, so he hopes… Read More »