This is my last in my series of ‘buy nothing new’ blogs, although as you will discover, it’s not the end of my ‘buying nothing new’! 12 months ago I decided
I can’t remember a bad Christmas from when we were kids. My dad loves Christmas: an over-abundance of decorations food and gifts; games, TV and friends. He’s always been a
I was raised on the ‘protestant work ethic’, even though my dad was a Catholic. To be fair, he championed work and play in equal measure. A union man and
The question was simple, casual: “Would you like to join us for a drink at the bar?” I’d been to one of my regular jaunts into the Highland capital
I’m about to make a confession, although not that I’ve taken up Country Music! When I decided in January that I wasn’t going to buy anything new this year, I
I was born and raised in the suburbs of London. It was Surrey then and is South West London now, less than a dozen miles from the city centre.
I’ve always been able to remember car number plates. Ever since I was a kid. Our first family car, a yellow Mini: original A reg named Primrose. The Ford
The young chirpy voice piped up a cheery ‘good morning’ on the packed train carrying a miserable load of – now ‘ex’ – holidaymakers from Gatwick Airport to Clapham, and
I decided, age 11, that I wasn’t eating meat. Not no more. Not no how. My mother was horrified and thought I would die of malnourishment. To be fair
I fear Alzheimer’s more than cancer, or more accurately, any form of dementia: a disease that can rob me of my abilities and ultimately my mind itself – my life