Matthew Crabb was born in Dorset and currently lives and works on the edge of Exmoor. He intended to have a career in graphic design until he started working in a power-tool hire shop, which is where he became interested in chainsaws.
Somerville College Oxford has an impressive number of firsts to its name. It educated the first woman Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, Margaret Thatcher, the first – and only – British woman to win a Nobel Prize in Science, Dorothy Hodgkin, and the first woman to lead the world’s largest
To produce an image that looks this good is the result of many pairs of extraordinary eyes using their individual expertise. I shall be 82 in October. This photograph is not of a beautiful woman, but of an author who works meticulously around the clock at everything she does, says and writes.
Just in time, Grandma comes to stay.
“Goodbye, Jamie, darling,” says Mum.
“It’s time for me to have our baby.”
She climbs into the car.
“I’ll be home soon. Grandma will take you to the park.
Thirty years ago, in July 1991, I drove through the Oxfordshire village of Wytham on my way to my own cottage nearby. It was a particularly hot afternoon. All my car windows were open. And through one of them I suddenly spotted the most beautiful scarecrow, standing proud in her field
The brutal email came thundering down the line at me from New York. My American publisher again. This time About Websites. “If you haven’t got one,” it shouted, “you don’t stand a snowflake’s chance in hell. We won’t do it for you, so get a move on. And don’t spin us any made-up yarns about yourself.
The swinging of the pendulum exactly marks the time:
Precise, intense, immaculate, he checks the hour’s chime.
A second out? Two minutes on? Then something must be done
To sharpen up the reckoning until the battle’s won.
“I’m giving birth to triplets,” I told one of my dearest friends in November 2020. “At the age of eighty-one it’s not something I’d really recommend … Working twenty-four seven through that heatwave nearly finished me off. My ankles still look like tree trunks.”
In 1953 we were both fourteen, sitting in the wonderful old library in North London Collegiate School, all oak panelling and wooden shelves, supposed to be writing essays.
“Tobias Mellwood ran as fast as the burning sand would allow, down the beach towards the lazy edges of the sea. Sweat poured into his eyes. The relentless noonday sun dominated the sweltering cloudless sky.”
One of my many nicknames – I’m eighty-one so there have been quite a few – is The Letter Writer. If you want something done, people say, ask Valerie. She’s The Letter Writer. I’ve always been proud of it. At school I was Vandy; at Reading University I was Sparrow.
Today is the day. We have all waited for it, with patience and with hope, during four long years. We wish President Joe Biden and his Vice-President, Kamala Harris, health, peace and safety in their government of the USA.
Although I am writing this feature on New Year’s Day 2021, I remember the moment as if it were yesterday. In 1976, forty-five years ago, I’d just left Oxford University Press in Walton Street, where I was working as an Editor, on my way to collect Sam from Magdalen College School.
One of the problems of being a full-time novelist – which I have been for the past twenty years and more – is this: when I’m deeply immersed in my storyline, my characters and their problems, I can’t read fiction by anybody else. Of course, I have to read for research: history books…
I first came to live in Woodstock in the blazing summer of 1976.
London had become a furnace and I was heartily glad to leave it. The removal van drove off to its overnight warehouse. Sam was spending the weekend with his father…
It is a truth universally acknowledged by the writing community that an author struggling with problems in the middle of a novel can do one of the following things:
Take a walk for at least five hours and sleep for forty-eight…
When I was a child, I used to march around with a book under my arm and, whenever possible, my head in it. I became skilled in finding a nook somewhere – an empty room, a large tree with a sturdy branch I could climb up to…
When I began my professional career as a journalist for Marshall Cavendish in London in the early 1970s, I was allowed to race out of the office at 3.00pm to collect Sam from his St John’s Wood nursery school. Norman Marshall was way ahead of his time. He recognised I was…
My Tribute Master Sloop was the most intelligent Cat I ever owned. His mother lived up the road but they never spoke. He and I met one morning quite by chance. In 2006, I had just moved into Hobbit Cottage on Hensington Road in Woodstock. My then gardener, David Trim, and I were planning to…
“All aboard!” Imperial Leather Daddy opened the door to his pride and joy.
As always, he had spent that Sunday morning washing, polishing and admiring his Armstrong Siddeley which now basked, gleaming and immaculate, in the early afternoon sun.
Ahead of me stretched an enormous green lawn, filled with funny brown lumps. A giant stood looking down on me. He had smiley blue eyes that glittered like sapphires and a gentle voice.
“What are those?” I asked, pointing.
The first proper formal lunch I remember eating was in 1946 at North London Collegiate School. Staff and students alike, we were recovering from the long-lasting effects of the Second World War. Miss Turpin, who ran the spotless kitchens with arms of experienced steel, stood…
Melanie Richards, wide awake at six that February morning, knew that today was either going to be spectacular or an absolute catastrophe. There’d be no half measures.
She’d spent the week preparing for a second interview for a job…
The patisserie in the centre of Soho rang with the buzz of Saturday-lunch voices and the chink of cups.
“Delicious.” Laura Forbes wiped the froth from her lips. “This place serves the best coffee in London.”
Clare Davenport ran her leather-gloved fingers over the train’s window, trying to see through to something other than the surly night. The train had ground to a halt again in its attempt to conquer the wrong kind of snow.
Travelling from Exeter to London and now…
Charles slept so heavily that by the time the December dawn broke, he seemed unable to open his eyes. He rolled them around his head but gum clamped the lids together. He tried to sit up without disturbing his wife in the other bed. Not that Irene ever stirred a false…
Belinda sat opposite her lawyer in his highly polished office, bitterly aware she wore down-at-heels shoes and woollen gloves with a hole in the right thumb.
She started to pray.
At noon, a dusty sun high in an even dustier London sky, Ella Richardson emerged onto the Finchley Road from her meeting feeling battered and bruised.
A freelance editor and journalist, Ella often told herself she…