What a waste

‘I don’t know if I can do this any more.’ ‘Do what?’ the book says. ‘This.’ ‘Sit around waiting for … More

Addicted to the news

‘Listening to the cricket again?’ says the book. ‘I think I’ll join you.’ ‘What do you mean, ‘again’?’ I say. … More

In the summer of 1986, when he was poetry editor of New Statesman and not long after Writing Home had … More

‘That thing you mentioned the other day,’ the book says. ‘Is it true?’ ‘What thing?’ I say. ‘About there being … More

‘How have you been?’ says the book. ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘You?’ ‘Tired,’ says the book. ‘I’m tired.’ ‘Me too,’ I … More

I do not stammer, but some of my earliest memories of speaking at school (‘What are eight sevens, Wilson?’) are … More

August 1914 What in our lives is burnt In the fire of this? The heart’s dear granary? The much we … More

Jack Palance: Do you know what the secret of life is? Billy Crystal: No, what? Jack Palance: This [he … More

I think I am probably in love with silence, that other world. And that I write, in some way, to … More

This isn’t about numbers, but my relationship with them. It isn’t about giving you a figure. (By the time you … More

On certain afternoons I am certain it has come back. A twinge in my right side, where the pain … More

I had begun the poem after work one day, on a pad of work-related notes. Get in, get out, I … More

I am returning to the pencil. The premise of which remark signifies consciousness that at some point I left the … More

Made of orange card, it’s an outline of my son’s hand. Comprising two sections, one his tiny, spread fingers, … More

I think I need the Other Writer much more than they need me. Off the top of my head I … More

I have been sorting. I have been chucking. It’s been the recurring theme over the last eighteen months. I cleared … More

At the start of each academic year, usually when I have known them for a week or so, I make … More

The book is sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by small scraps of paper. Some have whole sentences on them. … More