The End of the Line

I haven’t posted here for years, not since I finished my novel The Dove is Dead. I

thought then that my poncey pensées had outrun their limited relevance and it was

time to put a sock in it. They no doubt had and still have. But I have another book to

sell, The End of the Line, so it’s time to remove unwashed the twenty-year old

Brasher knitted item from the hypothetical trumpet. I assume the socks are named

after Chris Brasher, the Olympics steeplechase winner and pacemaker for Roger

Bannister. If you can remember that, read on. This time the literary PR company have

got me doing podcasts, selected from those who want geriatric guests. These seem to

come in two categories: those who see exercise as the elixir to eternal life and those

who dug their own grave some time ago and are ready to flop into it. I’m in no hurry

to go, but the latter group seem to be the more realistic.Tonight I’m doing gone about

my music tastes from the year dot. Music while you work? Victorian hymns? Miss

out everything before Buddv Holly? But I liked Johnny Ray and Frankie Laine.

Whatever age you are, life has its problems and I’ve lived a long time.

I hope you’ll buy and like The End of the Line