Books have always just been there. Loads of them, spilling over their allotted space on shelves, stored in the garage, the loft and the spare room in my family’s house. My most intense memories of my mother are of her reading to me, which she did each night at bedtime …






From where I’m sat in my front room, on the right of the bay window I can see a pile of four books. There’s a Tim Vine joke book. I usually buy a myself a joke book at Christmas, a kind of reserve fund of emergency fun. There’s a baking …






The treasure trove under the stairs was our first port of call when we visited our aunt’s house as children. We always found it full of bales of books brought home by our uncle who worked in a paper salvaging plant . Hours were spent in front of the fire …






Many years ago I made the acquaintance of an editor by the name of Drake Bamboozle. Drake Bamboozle told me of how he often grew tired of endless correspondence from frequently cantankerous writers who were awaiting a response regarding the unsolicited literary efforts they’d sent him. The editor said he …