charles barrow's writing

I am intrigued by this picture. It's part of a hoard of found photos (or rather, a stack of negatives found in a junk shop) and it was taken sometime in the 1920s or 1930s. For me it evokes Brideshead, the inter-war years, the River Thames, Oxbridge, but in all events a bygone era. And who is the young man with the serious face? He's gazing, not at the photographer but deep into his own thoughts. What is his story? His name? Who is he rowing and where? Did he have a happy life? Make it through the war that is coming? Or does he fall into that lucky generation that was too young for the first and too old for the second, like my grandfather. Though I don't think he saw it that way. Copyright, on the back of the postcard, is credited to Pavey and Gilbert and there is a web address www.paveyandgilbert.co.uk but Google can't find it. As far as I can discover Pavey and Gilbert were a London couple who probably took this picture, and more, their names were on the packets h

Further to my Big Cat post: I should have posted this picture last week, it slipped my mind, I don't know why. I'm pleased with it. Her name is Tequila. Photo is the author's own

Work on my next book, John Mann - At Day's End, came to a juddering halt a few months ago because my day job became so stressful that I was no longer able to be creative, or concentrate on it. It seemed ironic to me that the very time I needed an escape mechanism, a release valve, I was unable to run away to the fictional world I have created. It was a frustrating time. General feelings of lethargy and distraction were joined by a burden of guilt at time passing and no writing or editing being done. Things were getting bad and there was a feeling of desperation that led me to decide to give up on my writing; just stop, without the third installment of John Mann's story being finished and published. Things really got that bad. Then, last week, I heard in passing about someone who works on their writing for just eight minutes a day, and recommends it as a habit. Just eight minutes? For a fraction of a second I scoffed at the idea. Eight minutes of effort could hardly be worthwh

I took a trip to the zoo. A friend told me it seemed a very retro thing to do, and so it was I suppose. I remember a visit to London Zoo when I was a youngster although, oddly, it's the crowds of people I recall rather than the animals. On this recent visit I was taken with the big cats, as opposed to being taken by the big cats, which is a rather different thing altogether and one which stirred another retro memory. I recently re-read some Ray Bradbury short stories, amongst them a tale called The Veldt. I won't spoil the ending if you haven't read it, but it involves some creepy kids, some far future technology and a pride of lions on the open grasslands of Africa. This story made quite an impression on my young mind that has stayed with me down the years, so it was interesting to return to it recently and discover that, while it had lost some of its power to unsettle it was still enjoyable none-the-less. And thoughts of it returned to me as I strolled around the big