Some writers choose to hide in the wardrobe each day and pretend they’re in Narnia.
For me, my imaginary place of writing is up a narrow flight of stone stairs leading to an apartment in the village of Saint Chinian, near Beziers in the south of France.
I was there for real on holidays in September. This photograph …
I can explain why I’ve come back from France with a snapshot of a rubbish bin rather than one of the Eiffel Tower.
I didn’t actually get to Paris to see the Eiffel Tower.
Besides, I’ve decided it must be overrated.
On the way home from Europe, we stopped in Dubai and stayed in a hotel not far from the Dubai Mall.
I learnt many French words in my four years of language lessons in high school — but cuisses de grenouille weren’t among them.
Had I known about them, I wouldn’t have fallen into the trap of ordering frogs’ legs at a restaurant in France.
If you’ve already heard this story, feel free to move on.
You’re lucky. I can’t. …
When Crystal Palace plays Manchester United in the final of FA Cup, they need to know I’ll be thinking of them.
But I’d like to think they'll remember me too. After all, I did once put my life on the line for the Eagles.
It was 1980.
I lived then in a share house in Tulse Hill in nearby South London. Think The Young Ones…