A Literary Life

The days leading up to Xmas are such fun, aren’t they? All those cards and presents to buy and all those charity requests reminding one of starving children, crippled adults and abandoned dogs. Over the last few days I’ve been trying to concentrate on more important things, such as Sight and Time. Obviously the two go together, for both determine a view of the world. In regard to Sight, my bathroom ceiling fell down because the house next door put up scaffolding and the chap in charge stepped on to my flat roof and put his foot through it. He denied doing so, of course. When I now get into the tub there’s a bloody big hole up above and the rain comes through. I’m not too upset because I was brought up to believe that, owing to the cost of heating water, one only needs a bath once a fortnight. All the same, the hole annoys me. As regards Time, I find it odd that it flies when one is young and drags when old. If the laundry man is due to come at ten o’clock and I get up at seven, months pass before he arrives.

A week or so ago I was on my way to Pearson’s in the Strand to judge awards for young playwrights. Later that day I was due to catch a train to Liverpool to do some readings at the Picton Library. I got off the bus at Charing Cross, went into a shop to buy a newspaper, reached into my bag for my wallet and found it gone, along with cash, credit cards, old-age bus pass and train tickets. To say I was upset is putting it mildly.