In 1961, at the age of six, I entered the English school system for the first time. No-one in our family had ever lived in England before. I had a generally happy time at Overchurch, a popular and progressive state primary around the corner from our house in Upton. My new classmates said I talked…
When I was 10, my father's cousin (more like an uncle to me, as they'd both been brought up by my grandmother in Glasgow) became engaged to an English woman, a bold deed previously unheard of in our family. The wedding would take place in Hemel Hempstead on 31 July 1965. As it was quite…
That Anne and I have had a holiday home in Charente for nearly 20 years is no secret. It is a source of constant, ineffable smugness. I wonder if we would have had the guts to do it today. With Brexit looming (I have avoided mentioning it in this blog until now), we would almost…
I've been at it again, No, really. I've been too busy sunning myself in France - and watching Anne slaving away in the garden - to have a well-considered, witty little blog to hand for the edification and entertainment of my readers (and thanks to both of you, for your unfailing support). But... Having finally…
In 1979, at the start of my second post-graduate year in Oxford, I was awarded the prestigious and lucrative Osma Studentship. I was required to spend at least six weeks in Madrid. Not that I was complaining. I immediately spent a good chunk of the money on a Shergold double-neck guitar (so far, not a…
“What popular song includes in its lyric: losing my hair, Valentine, birthday greetings, bottle of wine, 64 and Wight?” If you don’t know, there’s really no hope for you. That day, for me, has finally dawned. The Fab Four Once you're south of 21 it becomes difficult to distinguish one birthday from the next unless…
I hadn't seen Alison for quite a while but we had stayed in touch over the years. In was 1982 and she was back from Tokyo or Beirut or Damascus, or wherever. For someone who had to resit her A levels, she was heading for a distinguished academic career, which was more than I was.…
October 1979: I was still, or again, (depending on which way you looked at it, as I'd returned to do post-grad work) studying at The Queen's College Oxford. The college offered me the exalted if ridiculous-sounding position of Vir Probatus (Junior Dean) if I abandoned the freezing slum that was 41 Bullingdon Road and moved…
In 1983, as previously confessed in this blog, I was living in east Oxford grinding away at my thesis. One of the other post-grads I got to know was Paul (a Pole with a German passport), who was studying at Wolfson and, in theory, writing a thesis on Hölderlin. We became friends. He had a…
It was Valencia, July 1972 and blazing hot: my first time in Spain (it now seems odd that I had already sat my Spanish A Level). I was on a three-week language course organised by Liverpool Poly, as it then was, and there were school students from all across the UK. One was at Eton,…
The Wight Stuff 