Memories can be one of the great pleasures of life. Moreover the longer you live (and I am now over 80), the richer and greater the store. But how can these pleasures be shared?
One answer is by writing. That is the challenge of turning ‘memories’ into ‘memoirs’, of whatever kind. It has been – and continues to be – an enjoyable challenge. These three published books are the result.
M Y S P E A K I N G J O U R N E Y
Being able to speak well and confidently to groups of people can be a source of great pleasure and interest, and certainly will help career advancement.
It was well over 30 years ago that I discovered by chance the world of speakers clubs – still by far the most effective and enjoyable way of developing skill and confidence. Thus began a long and fascinating personal story. Later on, too, came along the separate challenge of debating, which has also become a most important part of my speaking journey.
This book is the fascinating story of those many years.
T H O S E T R I N I T Y Y E A R S
It all started with a question to me from a present day alumni officer. “What was it like here in your time?
‘My time’ at Cambridge was over a half a century ago – back in the 1950s, in fact. They were three wonderful years for me in every way. But, yes, there were certainly many differences from today’s student experience. Clearly the story had to be written, and I invite you to share it with me.
C ‘ E S T L A V I E
Memoirs come in many forms. In my case it is a showcase collection – a mixed bag, if you like, of interesting and sometimes unexpected happenings – to me, by me, affecting me – and over the very long period of 80 years from a wartime childhood to today’s technocratic (but still sadly warring) age.
In a word, ‘That’s life’, or at least ‘my life’. I invite you to dip into its pages once publication takes place by March 2017.
‘ The occasion was a three-week tour with a friend Mark, then working in Nigeria, in which we were exploring Europe in his jazzy Scimitar sports car. We had started with the OktoberFest in Munich, and had then travelled east behind the Iron Curtain. The year was 1968.
We reached the tiny square of the small town of Modry Kamen in Czechoslovakia in the early evening, and considered our plans. We needed petrol, a place to stay, and something to eat and drink. Then, while we were thinking, we were in for a surprise. Word had evidently got around that there was a car from England in town. This was novel. A figure appeared, flying down the small hill to where we were parked. As he ran, he was waving his arms and shouting (with an American twang to his accent) “God save the Queen, God dammit!” ‘