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Michel de Montaigne was a sixteenth century French statesman and author who wrote “Essais’, essays or ‘attempts’, to translate literally, and is often credited with inventing the form. In 1571, he retired from public life and for the next twenty years or so, wrote on any subject that took his fancy, sitting at a desk in the round turret room of his chateau. “I am myself the matter of my book” he said…

the master of self study, wit and honesty worked here, though with books all around him...the books have gone but there's still something of the man about the place, his day bed for example, and the handy loo

  …true to his word, his writings reveal much about himself, not least his failings and contradictions and absurdities. In 107 chapters, he also explores his views on an electic range of subjects, from sleep to romantic love, friendship to cruelty, sadness, vanity, anger and idleness, often with lengthy digressions, dismissive of authority and conformity, unconcerned with what others might think. Remarkable enough, but he does it all with humour and irony and self-deprecation. 

the monologue, now viewed as politically very incorrect I know...references to her indoors etc...but the meandering Ronnie Corbett just does the delivery so well,...read about him in The Guardian by clicking on the photo above of the Büyük Menderes river in south western Turkey … The Maeander was so celebrated in antiquity for its numerous windings, that its classical name "Maeander" became, and still is, proverbial

my nan, left, and my mum at eighteen in Alexandria, chalk and cheese as characters, but the two most powerful influences in my life; one headstrong and wilful, the other soft and gentle…and yet as my mother ages and seems somehow to become her mother, striking similarities emerge, tenacity for example, acute observation, stoicism yes, but with an edge, a sense of entitlement, wit, something blue-blooded though both worked all their lives

above all, and rather embarrassingly, they shared in common a tendency to put me at the centre of their lives, for better or worse some partners might say

Laurence Sterne, clergyman and novelist who saw the funny side of both the novel as a form and life writing as an art. In The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, he showed a technical virtuosity that was daring then and, to my mind, has never been surpassed since. Calling attention to the artifice of the novel  includes the joke of totally black pages standing for events he cannot put into words, mocking the very notion that anything can truly be recorded or recorded truly.  

my sister, yet another stoic, with an easy laugh and a great advocate for all wildlife, including blacky, batty, toady, foxy, robby and all the other freeloaders who inhabit our garden…her unflinching support both emotionally and financially, despite tangible evidence of eccentric tendencies in her brother, has made this project possible...albeit at the cost of more white wine than she would ordinarily choose to drink

Benvenuto Cellini, the celebrated goldsmith, sculptor, soldier, brawler, liar, fantasist, died the year Montaigne began writing his essays. He left a lasting legacy in the form of his Autobiography, an unrivalled tour de force recounting his life in full technicolour and apparently without conscience…his surprise attacks on rivals down dark alleyways, his weapon of choice a dagger from behind, the planning of murders, and his faithless and selfish love life…and he never bats an eyelid. Chutzpah indeed.

my daughters...
the point, the purpose,
the subtext and text to everything, now astonishing young women with
good hearts and many talents,
their early promise as
bob sleighers alas, remains
sadly neglected

Italo Svevo is remembered best for his novel, Confessions of Zeno, which purports to be a memoir written at the behest of his analyst, recounting the very ordinary life and times of a Trieste businessman who is trying to give up smoking, and failing. Svevo is believed to be the model for James Joyce’s peripatetic Harold Bloom in Ulysses, and the two writers were great friends and even collaborators. Joyce championed Svevo’s work, though Confessions had to be self-published and received no accolades at the time. Irony is everything in Svevo’s world though not in Zeno’s, who takes himself painfully seriously. 

…Martha Gellhorn, rather than Hubby Hem, inspires with an immaculate writing style and no hint of mannerism. Fiction eluded her as a form, but as a journalist, she showed incredible courage under fire…the fascist bombs in Madrid were bad enough, but husband Hemingway’s behaviour worse, and after their divorce, after his silly attempts to belittle her substantial reputation as a war correspondent and big up his own rather flimsy credentials, she refused to even hear his name mentioned in her presence…this is them on a visit to China in 1941

and who could forget dear Jean-Jacques, plagued by paranoia most of his life, falling out with all and sundry, leaving his five children at a poorhouse, (so rumour has it), and yet he bridged the enlightenment with the romantic movement and wrote his ‘confessions’, saying this about the work:

“Ihave entered upon a performance which is without example, whose accomplishment will have no imitator. I mean to present my fellow-mortals with a man in all the integrity of nature; and this man shall be myself.

I know my heart, and have studied mankind; I am not made like any one I have been acquainted with, perhaps like no one in existence; if not better, I at least claim originality, and whether Nature did wisely in breaking the mould with which she formed me, can only be determined after having read this work.”

jean-jaques may have thought he'd have no imitators, but he couldn't have been more wrong...we're all at it these days, (mea culpa), 'authentic experience' being the gold standard for publishers and perhaps even readers, always implying the juicy if not the saucy...


I am a great supporter of artists’ rights, naturally, and copyright protection is important to defend those rights, but when you want to use a piece of music in podcasting, the pitfalls and obstacles are truly horrible…there are just so many interested parties, publishers, performers, writers and recorders, all with separate ways of collecting money…which would be fine, but they don’t even respond if you’re independent and offering very little cash…I know, I’ve tried…

…often one must fall back on those who are generous enough to make their work available at no to low cost, people like Aakash Ghandi and the author of the theme tune to this podcast series, Wes Hutchinson…so, allow me a moment to promote both artists and offer links to their wider work…the video offers a stunning acoustic version of a Bollywood love song performed by Aakash and the equally stunning singer Arijit Singh…Mister Wes Hutchinson’s very own website, a screen shot with a link to take you there…thank you all, so much, impoverished podcasters, amateurs and artists couldn’t make their work sing without you…

what is this thing called love?

essentially the sentiment of this wonderful tune is the theme of love and care simply stated…of course, there’s no way to get the rights to use it, but you can hear the song in this clip…

this is one of the great interpretations by the incomparable Dinah Washington recorded in 1955. Listen out for the instrumental that concludes the track, technical virtuosity with a perfect arrangement…

…Cole Porter claimed that “What Is This Thing Called Love?” with its innovative alternating major and minor key changes, was inspired by a Moroccan native dance

…and I had a moment where I thought bob’s sentiment, ‘I used to care,’ might be a good title for the podcast…until I realized just how universal the appeal of this hit from the film, The Wonder Boys and the album, Modern Times…but it’s a great singalong, especially for the middle-aged living through first Brexit and now Corona…sigh…


A worried man with a worried mind
No one in front of me and nothing behind 

There’s a woman on my lap and she’s drinking champagne

Got white skin, got assassin’s eyes
I’m looking up into the sapphire tinted skies

I’m well dressed, waiting on the last train


standing on the gallows with my head in a noose

Any minute now I’m expecting all hell to break loose

People are crazy and times are strange
I’m locked in tight, I’m out of range
I used to care, but things have changed

Songwriter: Bob Dylan

mothers and sons    

what’s in a title?

‘A brilliant book…Tóibín is a supple, subtle thinker, alive to hints and undertones, wary of absolute truths’ Robert Hanks, New Statesman


…a click on the image will take you to amazon

…and mother’s revenge

Ian McEwan, Martin Amis, Philip Larkin, Walt Whitman, Robert Lowell and Shakespeare are among the sons featured in Dale Salwak’s miscellany…

read tibor fischer’s spectator review here


love and care photographs, bar those linking to famous faces, screenshots and the like, are originals…some were taken by the author on a bicycle trip from Biarritz to la Rochelle…


…others are from the family archives and albums


being a carer gives you time to sift both past and present, your own and other people’s…


…which is nice


we’ll add more as we go along, naturally…I might even put captions on, though sometimes guessing is more fun…