Those of you reading this who are writers will probably be amazed at what I have to say. In some ways I am amazed I got this far without one. What don't I have?

A door.
....

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Good Lord, snow. What a lot of it. Horrible, horrible, horrible, I really hate snow. With a deep and deadly loathing. When I opened the curtain today, it was like another universe, I can tell you. Thankfully, this being Surrey, it has now all gone, and let's hope it doesn't come back. Otherwise, I shall be forced to lie on the sofa with the smelling salts in order to calm my shattered nerves, a la Lydia Languish, and the thought of having to go out anywhere will simply be Too Much. With Capitals ...

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If you throw away my words after I’m dead I’ll disappear completely. I want to leave something; need to be more useful than a flash of selective memory in the minds of family and friends. I’d love it if some future relative unearthed my scribblings and were entertained and hopefully stimulated enough to make changes in their lives, because of me; I hope to be more than an image in a scrapbook (of my making).

The other night, I watched the dead body programme; a new Horizon for the future of our parts,

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Nobody ever said that writing novels was easy. It takes too long, for a start, and it's bad for your health. It's lonely, and badly paid, and while a slight kink in the psyche is probably what made you a writer in the first place, you also have to be slightly nuts to persevere to the point where you can earn your living by writing-related work. But having spent the beginning of the week in the company of professional landscape photographers, courtesy of the Peak District Photography Centre, I'm beginning to think I'll have to stop moaning.

It's all in a dawn's work for Karen, Fran, Mike or Alex to get up at four, climb a fell in the dark (did you remember your head-torch, as well as making the right decision about which bits of kit were worth lugging up several hundred feet with you?) and sit there for an hour to catch sunrise on a distant peak.


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Lord H has been wondering recently about buying a Mac instead of a PC to replace one of our computers, and now it's arrived, hurrah! What a wonderful machine it is too - so scarily modern, with everything in-built. Weird. It even has Office software, so everything looks fairly similar to what we're used to. We're calling it Morris, if you're asking. It'll be Lord H's computer, but if we like it, then I suspect I'm going to get one too. Though we'll be keeping a PC, just in case. As you do. I fear the time will come, m'dears, when we'll have to get a larger flat, just to put our computers in. Lordy, but we're sad ...

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My shoes are too big. I bought them in Aberdeen the other month, at the end of a tiring and boozy weekend with Carrie.
‘This is the best time to buy shoes,’ she said, ‘when your feet are swollen.’

Apparently not, for me - it must’ve been the accumulation of champagne, white wine, lager, vodka & coke, Tia Maria and Cointreau & lemonade...of course, the cakes and chocolate wouldn’t have helped either, nor all the standing at bars.

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Julian Barnes is the award winning author of over 10 novels, two of which have picked up Booker nominations. In the past he has been, amongst other things, the deputy literary editor for The Sunday Times, the London Correspondent for the New Yorker magazine and has appeared on Desert Island Discs . He currently lives in London.

He latest book is Nothing to be Frightened of.

Tell me a bit about yourself.

Six foot two,

Eyes of blue -

Will that do?

Faulkner said a writer's obituary should consists of the line: 'He wrote books, then he died.' Not a bad anonymity to aim at, but nowadays impossible. So: born in Leicester, studied modern languages at school and university, became a lexicographer (so not afraid of words) then read for the bar (so not afraid of lawyers) then became a journalist and novelist. Supports Leicester City (so not afraid of defeat)



What's your ideal night out/in?

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I'm feeling very old just now. I think it's partly the result of having slogged my creative and emotional guts out this week getting the novel to within spitting distance of 30,000 words. It is exhausting, this writing business.

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I must say what a glorious sunshiney day it's been today. As an old acquaintance used to say, it's a "trumpety Hadyn-y day". And who's to say he was wrong? Anyway, there's far too much ruddy rhyme in those previous sentences than is strictly good for us (not to mention overuse of the word "day"), so I'll carry on and hope for some decent prose. So here goes (oh no, not another one ...!): Marian and I have thrashed the life out of the golf course this morning and came out with exactly the same score. That never happens. This means she's done very well and I've done very badly. Sigh. Still, I was quite happy with my attempted shot over the pond which landed on the very edge and stayed there. Hurrah! Thank the Lord for that conveniently placed nettle patch which kept my ball from the wet ...

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- to follow on from Not writing



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