On the dark hills at first shepherds watch the dance of the stars In the dark shelter a fragile child, bare arms outstretched Outside, angels deliver the glory of God: heaven’s light comes down, flows like a river into the…
Read: Like a lamb
Confused by Christmas? Finding it hard to picture the whole manger scene, with the donkey and the Christmas tree? Not sure whether the angels and the reindeer would have frightened the sheep? Is wishing on a star any better than…
At about high tide on the east coast on the evening of December 5, as waves beat against the sea defences, water flooded on to roads and into houses and thousands of people were evacuated from their fragile homes, something…
To my horror I have discovered that more than ten million people switched on their television sets on November 23 to watch a show that was totally beyond any kind of rational belief, featured weird creatures outside space and time,…
Rumours of nightingales on the heath draw me in, my eyes and ears wide open. Drawing blank at dusk, I dare the dangerous dawn that breaks like a wound over the grey bay – I push apart the brambles but…
You wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of the Duke of Suffolk. Not the current Duke of Suffolk (there isn’t one), but the first one, William de la Pole. An unpleasant character, he made a bit of a…
Read: Long ago and far away
You probably know this: “England is the only developed country producing school leavers who are worse at maths and reading than their grandparents, according to a damning report.” Or, to put it another way, England is the only developed country…
Outside Fylingthorpe we start to climb away from the sea The bus shudders through tight corners hunching its shoulders, brushing the sideburn hedges, dislodging leaves and branches, creaking down through the gears as if straining from ledge to ledge by…
Read: South from Whitby
Through the generosity of a friend, I got my first glimpse of the O2 arena – from the inside – this month. Transformed dramatically from its original incarnation as an exhibition centre, it was transformed again for me by the…
Read: The magic of Mr Cohen
Hard yellow lines form stitches beneath my car; on the threadbare verge beyond the bonnet drunken cones lurch forward, eager, like a bleeding woman who wants to touch. Red and white tape hangs like bandages listlessly from iron spikes, holding…