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Christopher Fowler
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I love mornings in Madrid - there's no-one about until relatively late, then the city slowly comes to life; the owners of market stalls, cafés, fruit and vegetable stores commence the ritual washing of pavements, and awnings are put up against the sun. The fierce invading light washes over everything, but can't reach far into the narrow backstreets. It's absurd to form an opinion of a city on the…
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Christopher Fowler
Posted in
Observatory
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Whenever I travel I spend the final hours before leaving in a frenzy of charging-up. It seems that travelling light now involves hauling 10 kgs of tech around, and it all has to be filled with 'the new electricity', as my great-grandmother called it. Thank god I gave up my car, otherwise I'd be charging that too. By the time I get where I'm going I should be fizzing with errant electricity. 1. A…
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Christopher Fowler
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Observatory
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I've gone a bit Henry Miller today, for which I apologise in advance. It's a work-in-progress from 'Word Monkey', the third part of my memoir trilogy, which began with 'Paperboy' and continued with 'Film Freak'. So, you've been worried about your health for a while but you're like Cleopatra, in denial. You think if you ignore it, it will go away. It won't. You need to see a doctor right now. So…
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Christopher Fowler
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Observatory
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In August 2008 I started this blog with a post about the neighbour in 'Bewitched'. The posts were short and funny. They were not often about books. Sometimes we had songs or musical numbers. We had competitions, crosswords and treasure hunts, as if we were big children. Most author websites discussed literature, but I didn't want to take a busman's holiday, so I cut loose with foolish things that…
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Goodbye
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Christopher Fowler
Posted in
Observatory
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When I was, oh I don't know, about three (see above) I had a mop of blond hair, was forced into cardigans at the seaside and was the size of a large duck. When I was 7 years-old my father proudly introduced me to 'Old Morris' who would take tonsorial control of me now that I was an adult. 'Old Morris' was about ninety and blind as a mole. Every time I went there I got my neck nicked with a cut…
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Christopher Fowler
Posted in
Observatory
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Billy Bunter's Big Blowout Recently I went to a party where there were lots of old friends I hadn't seen for a couple of years. It was lovely to see them after lockdown, and there was so much of them to see. They were, well there's no other way of putting this, fat, but dare I use that term? In my opinion it's a cancelled word that needs re-examination. Men and women can get fat - it's not a…
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Christopher Fowler
Posted in
Observatory
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Simple Joys Tinto de Verano is the perfect summer drink; everyone orders it in Spain yet its ingredients are basic; red wine, ice cubes, lemon/lime soda, slices of oranges and lemons. It's just something that tastes of summer. I'm drinking it during my one-week holiday (the first this year) in Barcelona, a trip thrown together at shockingly short notice by heroic Husband Pete. After a year and a…
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Christopher Fowler
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Observatory
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So This Happened At 7pm Monday night, Pete and I were at an impasse, arguing about possible ways of escaping the country. Sick of the dark days and apocalyptic storms and floods, tethered by commitments, we tried to find a travel date but couldn't find a day before October. I felt that given my condition there was little likelihood of me ever travelling again. Something broke and Pete suddenly…
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Christopher Fowler
Posted in
Observatory
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I wait impatiently for my brain fog to lift. I am Phileas Brain-Fogg. My mind is a tabula rasa, each day vanishing into grey smoke. The howling wind and rain outside, constantly tearing at the new planting in its determination to point out that last year's pleasant summer was a freakish anomaly, never lets up in what must be our worst summer ever. The tail of the Gulf Stream flicked away in spring…
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Christopher Fowler
Posted in
Observatory
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I expect my readers to be a little smarter than average. Dear Diary, it's Friday August 6th, and I've started feeling like Joan Crawford trapped in Bette Davis's house in 'Whatever happened to Baby Jane?' But at least she got to be in Santa Monica. I'm in King's Cross. I am a prisoner. The Prisoner. No.6. I am not a number, I am an animal. I'm the Forgotten Prisoner (bats not included), the…
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