“I walked to Oxford Circus yesterday. Joined the canal at the bottom of Agar Grove. Reclaimed the city as only walking can. It is neither as big nor as scary as it appears.”
Author Harry Chapman
“It was with some anticipation that I went along to see The Paper Cinema’s interpretation of this cornerstone of the Western canon. Actually “see” is inaccurate. It is very much a cross-sensory experience.”
“Frank had been swimming ever since he could remember. His parents had owned a house down by the waterfront in Mosman, inside Sydney’s great Harbour…”
The sun periodically burned through the blanket of cloud so I chanced an outside table at one of the cafés on Swain’s Lane. I sat, looking enviously over at the well-heeled diners tucking into mountainous salads at Kalendar and Café Mozart.
I went to a 40th birthday party last Saturday. It was full of stupid, sleazy media types braying like donkeys, desperate to be liked, to be younger than they were, to be thought of as important, to be everything other than what they were.
As I passed below the mysterious Chanctonbury Ring, an Iron Age hill fort planted with a copse of beech trees bent north-east by the prevailing wind, I saw a figure stop at the gate I was approaching. He was waiting for me…
He was talking to Katharine when I entered the restaurant, in that gallant, paternal way some older men of a certain character adopt when speaking to the young. He was certainly a character, with his bear-like frame…
As we move inexorably into spring, roving explorer Harry Chapman pens a fond farewell to the winter months and that bracing weather phenomenon that carries with its crystalline flakes the ability to invigorate the soul.