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Christopher Fowler
Posted in
Great Britain
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At this time of the year it feels as if every day is like Sunday - gelid, grey, silent. We could be in the depths of the Kent countryside rather than at one of the world's most trafficked spots, partly because we are beset by national postal, air and rail strikes. A friend has no regrets; after she had been forced to cancel a Christmas holiday in Trieste she felt a sense of relief that she could…
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Christopher Fowler
Posted in
London
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It is the writer's curse to lose topicality; we age, the world changes fast and London becomes unrecognisable. New York is, for good and bad, exactly the same old New York I visited on my twenties, even as New Yorkers complain about chain stores and rents. Finite and boundaried, it has barely changed in the time I've been going. I feel that's largely true of England, and especially at Christmas…
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