Thanks for reading. This blog is an opportunity for me to capture some of the diversity of my writing interests. My muse tend to appear on my shoulder as I board an international flight although not all of my writing is inspired by travel and foreign places. These blogs have been the basis of a novel (Flowers of Baghdad) but there are a few other writing projects in progress besides. Please feel free to leave a comment. Or two.
It sure does. Which is why its so important to get up here. There is nothing back home that equates to the sort of experiences you can immerse yourself in here. Walk up the empty streets at 6am and meet folk getting their day underway.
The popcorn seller was a mildly spoken man and seemed overwhelmed by the crowd of people standing around trying to work out what his collection of spices and condiments were all about. But he and his fellows are popular in the street and it only takes a few minutes to work out what he charges…
The day starts early. My usual routine is an alarm call at 0530 each day. So, despite hoping for a sleep-in until 7am, I wake just before the alarm has a chance to prod me and lie awake for 5 minutes before I realise I’m not going to go back to sleep.
Well, here we go. The diary starts. I always have to start these things with a reminder that I need to capture as much introspection as possible. Otherwise they can turn into something tedious and fail to reveal anything new to anyone, including myself. So lets start there shall we?
The taxi driver was a short round chap, half asleep and lying reposed in the window of his beaten up little Suzuki van. And it was surely a wreck with little to commend it other than at midnight it was going to save us a walk in the rain back to the hotel. We stepped…
I attended a cocktail party recently and enjoyed a range of conversation with various folk involved in the publishing game. I liked the fact that the 41 year veteran from the mail room (I suspect there is more to the story than just that) was there and mingling.
When the going gets tough, the tough get going. When I first read that in a school magazine (relating, I believe, to the then athletics captain, a diminutive chap, whipping Xavier in some long distance race) I was taken at how pithy it was. I then discovered over a period of time that it is…
Its hard to believe more than a decade has passed since I was here last. It only seems like yesterday that I was bashing through the traffic of Dhaka behind a certain Mr Chowdary (their equivalent of “Smith” it seems) who was anxious to jam as many fleeting business meetings as possible into the time…
0225hrs. A character in Baghdad reflected that his true place of worship was in his own mind, in the quiet on the top of his own house, not in the mosque. Here he was content and most close to God; where he felt God was less judge and more sympathetic creator. And in tune with…
Just follow the boundary fence. You’ll come to a dam at the far end. The track we were on yesterday should come off that. Righteo. Actually, that briefing proved to be flawed. Expecting the track to loop around the property I found myself at the end of a long ridge, and the end of a…