Category: Literature

Christmas with Chips

Chips (Channon) records Christmas Day in his diary: 1924 – 1935. Thursday, 25th December, 1924. Christmas – the gloomiest of days. I arrived from New York feeling very lonely and thinking of all the happy Christmases I have had in England and of Madresfield where I had promised to be now – a bitterly cold… Continue reading Christmas with Chips

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From Conrad

To Diana Cooper, 23rd December 1945, Barhatch, Cranleigh, Surrey. And I got your letter about Maurice.* It was of deep interest to me. Especially as I can’t talk to Diana about him. Diana thinks writing poetry and being a Catholic (or having any religion) the two big unpardonable idiocies. So you can’t expect much sympathy… Continue reading From Conrad

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On This Day

Conrad Russell, 1878 – 1947:  “Russell was the youngest of the six children of Lord Arthur Russell and Laura, the daughter of Paul Louis Jules, Vicomte de Peyronnet. He was accordingly a nephew of the Duke of Bedford, and a cousin of the philosopher Bertrand Russell, as well as of the latter’s son, his namesake… Continue reading On This Day

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Welsh Rabbit

Churchill was appointed Home Secretary in 1910. Aged thirty-five he was the youngest since Robert Peel.

Lamentation

Feeling a little under the weather I have postponed reading Sonia Purnell’s biography of Clementine Churchill and turned to lighter fare more suited to my mood.

Limping Lady

C.C.’s comment “what about Carrie?” made me think but maybe one day she will be worth a biography although she is more likely to make a pre-emptive strike by writing a memoir about the red wine stains on her upholstery.

It Begins with C

I would only quite like to read Cherie Blair’s 2008 memoir but I haven’t. I wait for a biography of a Prime Minister’s wife (beginning with C) and then two come along.

Roy and Winston

I must digress before I begin. You will be aware I use Wikipedia a lot. Not so much now. When I ask Google a question AI Overview comes up with the answer. I now realise AI already touches all our lives.

The Famous Five

On a wet Sunday afternoon at boarding school time seems to pass slowly. Today a week passes more quickly. This is because aged eight a single afternoon takes up as much memory space as a month now that my memory has become chocker.