November 25th 2024

We all have a book in us

Very occasionally, but more frequently during the winter months when early evenings prevent me from working outside, I ponder if I should try writing a book. I have a few friends who have done so, and although they are not yet best-selling authors, they have done a pretty good job of it and should be proud of their efforts. I struggle, however, to think of a subject that anyone would find remotely interesting. I blame my parents. It is well known that the most successful writers have had an upbringing soured by abuse, neglect, ill health or loss of one or both parents and, disappointingly, my own childhood was devoid of any of those. In today's age, being a celebrity would also be useful, but any chance of that has long passed me by. It could be argued, however, that many of the A-listers that have written a book should have been advised to take heed of the cartoon opposite before putting pen to paper.

Brought back down to earth

I was very pleased recently when my youngest son Harry told me that instead of paying the garage to replace his offside wing mirror on his car before its MOT, he ordered one online and successfully fitted it himself, saving a small fortune in the process. I congratulated him, and was just about to add that I was pleased that I had taught him how worthwhile and satisfying it was to do things oneself, when he added that his inspiration had been a friend at work and went on to describe this colleague's amazing attributes. I was left deflated.