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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.
BUY
NOW My
Speaking Journey
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.
BUY NOW
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.
Excerpt:
‘ 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!” ‘