WHAT A SHOCKER!

I went to the Hospital last week for an EMG. That is an Electromysomethingorothergram, for the uninitiated. The doctor bore more than a passing resemblance to Matt Lucas in looks, mannerisms and voice. All of which I have to say I found a little disconcerting.

Dr Steve, or is Matt Lucas?

‘Hi. My name’s Steve.’ He said by way of introduction

‘And you’re …’ He glanced at his notes. ‘… Andrew. Lovely! Now let’s have a look at this arm shall we?’ and took me through to a room, where sitting next to a bed was a computer attached to lots of little wires.

It just so happens that I have had one of these nasty little tests before, so I knew what was coming. I remember the jolts of electricity from electrodes placed on the skin going down my arm, causing individual muscles to fire and jumping about like a cat on a hot tin roof in response. Then the needles which were stuck into the muscles which are stimulated by movement of the arm or by wiggling the needle in its site and readings taken. Not neccesarily painful, but extremely uncomfortable.

‘The test is designed to check muscle and nerve connectivity and shouldn’t take too long. All right?’ He said in his Matt Lucas voice. Yeah right, let’s get it over and done with, I thought. Now needles I can take. I mean I wouldn’t jab them into myself for laughs, but since having had to self-inject every day for four months, I don’t have a problem with them. So he stuck the needle into eight or ten sites, and the electrical activity in the muscle was recorded. It was the part of the test designed to measure general muscle activity which is done via the electrodes which caused the trouble. It reminds me of when we were kids and used to hold on to farmers’ electric fences (as you do)

That sure looks fun

Each time Doctor Steve presses a little button – barely concealed in his chubby hand: I hit the roof. He begins to show signs of frustration, as I am hopping about so much he is finding it difficult to get a reading. In fact during the course of one particularly extended series of shocks, he definitely gives me a glare. As if to say: ‘Come on, get a grip’. What neither he nor I realise is that this is because he hasn’t switched it off while he is taking his readings. So I am rewarded by the sight of him jumping about three feet into the air as he goes to peel the electrode off my hand and completes the circuit. He looked flustered. More by his own discomfort than mine I suspect.

I am minded to say something about Health and Safety, but decide to let it lie.

Copyright 2013 Andy Daly

200 Posts! A landmark in Blog and Web Publishing

Yes indeed. Today marks my 200th post.

I know.

Who would have thought it? AND I have still got plenty of crap up my sleeve – if you will pardon the expression.

Now I have thought long and hard (as if) about how to mark this auspicious occasion, and come to the conclusion that of late, I have been guilty of a ‘lowest common denominator’ approach to posts. Too Low Brow. And not enough references to Parkinson’s.

So, Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls here is your 200 special: A double header; comprising ‘Thought For The Day’ plus a dip into the ‘Sitting Comfortably’ archive for a personal favourite; a glimpse at an often overlooked contemporary issue ’The Post Modern Male’ and Body Image’.

“THE POST MODERN MALE AND BODY IMAGE” or “MIRROR MIRROR”

Warning! Contains male nudity of a graphic nature and Sheffield accents. May be unsuitable for those of a nervous disposition.

This is the tale of Jinks’ anus. I will never forget him telling me this story and the helpless laughter it left me with, and for which I only have to recall the story’s dénouement to have it re-kindled.

Jinks, despite being from ‘Sheff’ (Sheffield) was a smashing bloke. Bit of a nuisance when he was drunk; but then so are a lot of people. He had a tendency to square up to, or a wish to discuss the finer points of issues with Lads (and sometimes Ladies) of considerably bigger build, and who seemed to have an air of greater ‘combat experience’ behind them. He was never a great-looker, bless him (Use these words to form a sentence of your own: Pot, Black, Call, Kettle)  the last time I saw him, he wore baggy army surplus trousers, a Sex Pistols T-shirt and a denim jacket. His head was shaved, revealing an angry lunar landscape of spots, blackheads and acne scars. A long spike of hair, bleached, sprouted from a point to the front of his crown, and for the most part dangled down over his eyes and face.

“Did I ever tell y’t’ story of when I saw me oan arsehole?” He asked one day in the pub, apropos of nothing.

“Well, I were on’t’ bus comin’ oam fr-fr- fr-fr- frum college one dinner time…” (he stammered too)

I was immediately hooked and listened intently.

“Aye, I were on this bus, when I thowat: Y’ knurr, twenteh too yeayurs on th-th-th-th-this planet and I’ve n-n-n-n-n-never seen me oan arsehole.”

Then and there, Jinks resolved to do something about it. He hatched a plan. What sort of bizarre meanderings and tortured thought processes lead a human mind to close focus of such an issue is beyond me. However, unimpeded by such concerns, the intrepid Jinks prepared to alight.

At his stop, he scuttled down the stairs and off the bus. He quickly covered the quarter of a mile or so to his house.

“Twelve-thirty: brilliant, me Mum won’t be ‘oam till at least wun. Should be perfect!” he thought to himself as he glanced at his Tintin watch

He described reaching home, hurridly unlocking the front door, and racing straight up the stairs into the bathroom.

Once in, he threw off his jacket. The bathroom, though clean and tidy, was small and poky. The only mirror was that on the front of the vanity unit placed high on the wall, adjacent to the sink. Now this was going to be tricky, it would require nerve, balance and more than a little agilty. Not to worry! Our Hero had done his planning and, after feverishly unbuttoning, dropping and stepping out of his pants, naked from the waist down, he began his ascent. Careful!… one foot on the basket that housed spare toilet rolls, old newspapers, and inexplicably, a can of WD 40. Good! … it did’t give. A step up with the other foot onto the window ledge. Easy! The fan light was open causing the net curtain to play in the fluttery wind. This was the big one … Ready? One, two, three … Hup! Other foot into the ‘soap space’ corner of the sink, behind the tap … Will it hold my weight? …. Yyyyeeessss! Done it!

I recall the expession on his face as he reached this pivotal point in his recounting of the whole tale: a mixture of triumph and relief.

“At last! The Holy Grail!” (His words!) “I could see me oan arsehole!”

He should have taken more notice of the open window, for no sooner had his face of triumph clouded with revulsion at what he beheld in the mirror than the bathroom door (which in his haste he had forgotten to lock) swung open, and his Mum walked in.

“Jeremy!” She screeched “What on EARTH are you doing….?”

“I’m br-br-br-br-brushin’ me teeth Mum!”

“THOUGHT FOR THE DAY”

I got to thinking (as you do) what would have happened had James Parkinson and Thomas Crapper been swapped at birth?

Parkinson would have invented the Water Closet and people would still giggle and make jokes about ‘going for a Parkie’, but I would still have a crappy disease.

Painting The Town

Our house

Now last night I just get back from a blinding holiday in a place called Italy. And I wish to say I never see a prettier sight, what with trees and birds and bushes called vines.

In this Italy they are pretty big into churches, cathedrals and suchlike; and where you find churches and cathedrals you can take odds at six to four on that you will also find plenty of pictures. I’m no expert but I reckon they are painted hundreds of years ago to keep the punters awake. You know when the sermon gets a bit boring and they get to thinking I am sure I hear the same thing last week, they might find their eyes wandering over pictures of scenes from the life of Jesus, St. John the Baptist and other famous Italians.

But exercise caution, as wherever you find paintings, you are almost certain to find sculpures too. Sculptures are 3D pictures and are generally the things you trip over as you stand back to admire a picture.

We are staying at the Masaccio Art Centre (Masaccio being a famous artist who invented the camera) which is high up on a hillside near Poggibonsi – or ‘Podgy Beyonce’ as some of our party are apt to call it – Now although I call this a holiday, it is anything but. The general idea being that we (that is to say me and my thirteen colleagues) spend our days painting the Tuscan landscape and all that we find therein. Well this is a tall order in my view. Personally I think instead of paying for the priviledge of tackling such a tricky task, we  should be on a decent hourly rate, given all  the things we have to do, such as mixing paints and whatnot.

Our teacher is an amiable guy by the name of Gary, who it seems does a fair bit of ‘smudge with the sludge’ in his day. In fact I am in the Art teaching dodge myself for some years, although the last thing I paint is a garden shed and by that I mean a garden shed and not a picture of one.

The trouble really starts when we begin to use oil paint. This infernal stuff takes decades to dry and seems to magic itself onto my shirt, trousers, hair and into my ears. I begin to get a reputation (unjustly in my view ) as a messy worker and a horder of materials and equipment.

‘Where’s the Yellow Ochre?’ ‘Andy’s got it’ ‘Where’s the Alizarin Crimson?’ ‘ Don’t know, but if you look on Andy’s desk…’

Then, horror of horrors. It is announced we have an exhibition to show our work at the end of the course. Now needless to say, my paintings are clearly the work of an idiot who is messing around and not listening when he should be and so appropriate action is taken. To whit, I knock out a few abstracts and even go as far as sticking red ‘sold’ labels on some of them in an attempt to generate some interest.

Unfortunately, at the exhibition private view, the only interest I generate is that of a daffy English doll who lives in the village; or more accurately lives in the bar in the village and who is 102 if she is a day. Cut her and she bleeds Chianti. On top of which she is a Know It All.

But despite this I have a blast and hope the others do too.

Chuddy Time

Now, I’m no Physisist … Phisycist … Phycisist. What I am trying to say is I don’t understand much about classical mechanics, quantum mechanics, thermodynamics and statistical mechanics, electromagnetism, special relativity and the like.

But I have been doing a lot of thinking about Time lately and reckon it is just like chewing gum. You can stretch a bit out here and another bit over there, but it is still part of the same piece of chewing gum although it is in three places at the same time.

And so it is. Time plays maddening tricks on you. Events seem to telescope out of all perspective. Things that seem to have happened only yesterday on closer inspection turn out to have been a quarter of a century ago.

It seems like yesterday I was reading bedtime stories, planning daft excursions and being ‘Dad’ to two little fellows who are now grown men.

Memories, like old gum, ambush you when you least expect them, stuck to your pants, shoes, the underside of your table; glueing themselves to your consciousness for ever.

Andy Daly 2013

Put yourself in my shoes

I am pleased to have been asked to write a blog post on the theme ‘Put  yourself In My Shoes’ by Parkinson’s UK  for Parkinson’s Awareness Week.

So, for starters I suggest we try and get you into my shoes. Size 8 black Dr. Martens boots. No, not necessarily a fashion statement: they are light, and provide essential support for my ankles when I walk. The dystonia I suffer as part of my particular Parkinson’s ‘Bumper Package’ causes my feet to turn inwards when I walk and a pair of tight fitting Docs makes bit makes it a bit more bearable.

How are you doing with the boots? Got them on? Good. Now pop on this pair of oven gloves and tie the laces.

(It doesn’t really feel like you are wearing oven gloves when you are performing the task, they are simply to replicate the kind of frustration you feel at the complexity of doing this, the simplest of things because you cannot co-ordinate your fingers, or because they have no strength or simply do not respond to what you/your brain is telling them to do.)

Now, let’s put your coat on. You may have some difficulty … What is that? Yes, I was about to say you may have some difficulty getting your arms in. Yes, that’s because of the falls you had last year. You’ve damaged your  left shoulder, we think. That’s why you can’t get your arm any higher.  Here let me help you. Stay upright though! Don’t start to shuffle your feet! Take longer strides! Don’t … You’ll fall … Oh deary me.

Hmmm! Let’s have a look … I think it’s only a surface wound, I’ve got some iodine and some steristrips upstairs. You take your coat off while I go and get … Oh of course, you can’t can you? Well let me help you get the coat off and see to that cut. Pardon? It’s time for you medication? I see. Well let’s deal with one thing at a time shall we? Let’s get that coat off … Now I’ll just run upstairs and get the … What? You need to go to the toilet now? Is that before or after I clean your cut and get your medication? Before? … You think? OK, in you go.

What? You can’t go now? … I thought you were desperate? Turn the water on! It’ll help.

What? … Oh I see, you can’t go because you still have the oven gloves on …

… Well, you get the picture…

If you were in my shoes this time last year, it would have been a pretty miserable experience, because my shoes didn’t go anywhere. However, thankfully, due to the patience, care and dedication of the Functional Neurosurgery team at the National Hospital For Neurology And Neurosurgery who performed the Deep Brain Stimulation procedure and supported me through the hellishly complex programming; I am able to put my boots on, lace them up, put my coat on, leave the house, walk to the nearest Underground station and travel into London, visit an art gallery, see a film …. Whatever. On my own.

I have a life again AND not only that, but I have been able to reduce my medication to microscopic amounts compared to what I had to take before.

It has not been an easy road The DBS has not worked as well as we might have hoped. My walking isn’t pretty, my speech suffers when I have to increase the level of therapy to counter the wearing-off of Sinemet. But I am learning to work around its limitations.  It is not a cure.

But for the time being it’ll do me.

Links to posts on this blog specifically about Parkinson’s and what it is like to live with it. (Please note, the hospital referred to in the East Ward stories is not The National)

Rake’s Progress

Rake’s Progress 3

East Ward 4

East Ward 3

East Ward 2

East Ward 1

Sticks and bones

Brain downs tools

Who will make ammends?

The way of the hand, foot and the walking stick. Tae Kwon Do and Parkinson’s

 Love and other drugs

Know it all

Dub cutaneous injections: Aswad and the man who…

Please be aware some of the above contain language of a fruity nature and my not be suitable for those of a nervous disposition.

I ought to make clear is that what you have read is a fictionalised version of my experiences. Also, Parkinson’s, its symptoms and its progress differ from person depending on age, the type of medication they are taking, external stresses and so on. So please bear in mind anything you have read here may not be typical of your own case or that of the person you care for.

MY MUM 2 MARGARET THATCHER 0

I feel compelled to not let Baroness Thatcher’s passing go unremarked.

Iron Lady. Rust In Peace

So I’ll sum up my feelings by recounting a little tale about my dear old Mum.

Before I was born, in the late ‘50s my Mum was a social worker in the North West. She had a big patch and drove her Ford Popular to get to her appointments. (A bit like ‘Call the Midwife’ on four wheels) Back then, social work wasn’t tarnished with the brush of scandal and incompetence that rightly or wrongly it has been in recent years. All the same, it was about tackling poverty and deprivation and trying to improve the conditions for society’s most vulnerable.

After stopping work to have the family and a hip-replacement operation, she retrained to be a Primary School teacher, first in Greater Manchester and later in the poorest area of Whitehaven, in the shadow of Haigh pit and the Marchon chemical works.

She hated Thatcherism and its uncaring, hectoring style. I knew that from the way she would answer back to the news on radio and TV. But she never discussed her own politics. To this day I don’t know how she voted.

Anyway, the year is 1982 or thereabouts, in the run up to local elections. Mid morning one day there was rat-tat at our front door. I was upstairs and heard my Mum go to answer it.

‘Yes?’

‘Good Morning, Madam. Lovely day’

There seemed to be two visitors on the doorstep. I listened on.

‘I wonder whether we might be able to count on your vote in the forthcoming election?’

‘And you are ..?’

Well, it was the Tory candiate, long-forgotten; while the other introduced himself as one Piers Merchant, a young Tory smoothie and unsuccessful candidate for Newcastle Central in 1979. Presumably Central Office were allowing him to hone his campaigning skills ready for the next general election campaign.

‘May we ask what line of work you or your husband are in then we can give you an idea of some of the ways the Conservative Party are going to be able to transform your lives?’

‘As it happens we are both in Education’

‘Ah! Schools’ said Merchant ‘A subject close to Mrs. Thatcher’s heart and one that I think you will find the Conservative Party …’

‘What does she know about schools?’

Talk about ‘lighting the blue touchpaper!’ For a good fifteen minutes, my Mum laid into them, wiped the floor with them in fact, on every aspect of Tory policy Education, Health, Energy, Tax, The Falklands. I listened on in glee, getting prouder and prouder of my Mum as they got more and more uncomfortable. Eventually to resounding cheers from upstairs, she slammed the door on them and they scuttled off, tails between their legs.

Epilogue

Piers Rolf Garfield Merchant got his wish and was elected to parliament representing Newcastle Central in the 1983 election. He lost his seat in1987. He returned to parliament as MP for Beckenham in 1992. His resignation was precipitated by the ‘Sleeze Merchant’ Affair in which the married MP was photographed and filmed in what are generally referred to in these cases as ‘compromising situations’ with a 17 year old Soho based ‘Hostess’. In 2005, he was the UKIP candidate for the Torrington Rural ward in the Devon County Council election, but finished fourth of the four candidates.

The point being of course that the Iron Lady image was a myth perpetrated by the likes of spineless lackeys like Merchant. In overcoming adversity, battling a lifetime of ill health (not that often you would know it) my Mum was an Iron Lady, so was her Mum, and My Best Mate Aky’s Mum. And Jackie and Jane and Caroline …

 

CANVEY ISLAND CASTAWAY

‘Bye bye, bye bye.

Bye bye Johnny,

Johnny B. Goode’

… and then it dawns, part way through the Chuck Berry number, that has become for me, at least, an anthem to mediocrity; that he is singing about himself. ‘Johnny’ is him. John Wilkinson. And at once the song takes on a completely different resonance and poignancy as its singer raises his hands to wave his goodbyes.

Last night, me and my minder, Stig went to see John Wilkinson play his second and final London full house of the week, under his stage name, Wilko Johnson. In fact, it was quite probably his last London show ever, because Wilko has been diagnosed with terminal Pancreatic Cancer. He is still in a state of ‘euphoria’ he describes it over the news which he received after falling ill during the tail end of a UK tour last autumn. Typically, Wilko decided that what was needed was a new album and a ‘farewell’ tour which has seen him play dates in France and the UK and which finishes in Guernsey at the weekend.

Dr Feelgood: you really wouldn’t want to take these boys home to meet Mum and Dad.

A strange response you might think, but not if you know any thing about Wilko Johnson, probably best known as founder member of the influential Canvey Island upstarts, Dr. Feelgood.

For a start, he is no mug. In fact Wilko has a very interesting CV, of which the Feelgoods are only a small part. He went to Newcastle University where he read English, specialising in Middle English and the Norse Sagas. Got a good degree (though he never collected his certificate: he was ‘tripping’) Travelled widely in India and Afghanistan, and taught English in a secondary school, is an accomplished painter and a keen astronomer with his own observatory on his roof at home in Southend.

Stupidity. Wilko and Lee

Interest in Wilko has been on the up over the last couple of years, largely thanks to Julien Temple’s documentary film about the Feelgoods  ‘Oil City Confidential’.  But it has soared since his diagnosis was announced. There have been radio, newspaper and magazine interviews as well as TV appearances.Tickets for the original show at Koko, Camden Town last Wednesday sold out within an hour so a second date was added. The touts last night were reportedly asking £200 a ticket

And it was rammed: nowhere have I experienced such a density of bodies within a given space. I don’t know what the capacity for Koko is, but I’d be willing to bet it was well over last night. They were even standing in the toilets, doors open so they could watch on one of the numerous TV screens dotted about. Also, I was staggered by the number of photographers buzzing around the stage.  All slightly ironic, since Wilko has been for years doing the circuit, performing to the same small hardcore crowd, forever it seems consigned to that dullest of musical genres: Pub Rock.

Pub Rock it definitely wasn’t. Backed by the muscular rhthym section of drummer Dylan Howe and one of the world’s most underrated bass players Norman Watt-Roy, Wilko worked his way through All Through the City, Dr Dupree, Roxette, Sneaking Suspicion, Keep On Loving You, When I’m Gone, Paradise, Don’t Let Your Daddy Know, Back In The Night, Wooly Bully and She Does It Right – as only he can do. Eyes all speed-freak-stare with trademark robotic movements across the stage. There is no one else. He is a total one-off. But don’t be mislead.There was no room for sentiment. There was more than a glint of steel in Wilko’s performance.

When I first saw him in my teens, I thought how does he move across the stage like that? Well part of the reason was evident from my vantage point last night. Wilko still uses his trusty red coiled guitar lead; last in fashion when the New Seekers were riding high in the charts, and it is plugged straight into his amp. That’s right, not an effects pedal or stompbox nor the plateloads of spaghetti that accompany them in sight. Thus reducing his chances of tripping over same by 100%.

There were no embarrassing speeches no ‘surprise’ celebrity guests, Wilko seemed genuinely  touched that people had bothered to come out and see him in such numbers and looked, as did the rest of the band, like they were having a blast.

God bless you Wilko Johnson and remember when you get back to Southend if the ‘euphoria’ starts to wear off and the old black dog starts following you again:

‘Human existence being an hallucination containing in itself the secondary hallucinations of day and night … it ill becomes any man of sense to be concerned at the illusory approach of the supreme hallucination known as death’

De Selby

Wilko Johnson Koko Camden Town London 10^th March 2013

See Wilko’s excellent autobiography written with Zoe Howe ‘Looking Back at Me’ Cadiz Music 2012

A Birthday Poem

HERE AND THERE

It is strange: knowing you are there, nearer home than here, which is after all home, but almost a world away. In point of fact, here you’re definitely not there, but sometimes you’re not really here either. Not in your heart of hearts. Mind you, I can understand why. I suppose there are many many times that you are there when you are here. And it doesn’t help when people go ‘there there’, because you might not want to be there there, you might want to be here here or you might want to be a bit there or a bit here: a kind of cosmopolitan here there. The main thing is that no-one is nowhere, you’re always somewhere. Here, there … or thereabouts.

Andy Daly 2013

THE OLD HAG DREAM

I’ve never had much truck with ghosts and all that shite. Everything can be explained by Science, Art or both – and if it can’t, there’s probably a good reason for it: like we haven’t evolved enough to comprehend. Giving my great grandfather a mobile phone in his trench in Flanders would have been futile. To him it would have been nothing more than a small cigarette box with numbers on. No use for vital communication that may have saved his and his comrades’ lives. Besides what use is one mobile phone? Who do you ring?

Anyway, I’m getting distracted. Long time readers of blog may recall about 4 years ago I promised to tell the tale of my Old Hag dream. Well here it is!

In old London town back when George Michael was considering turning another corner (Ah! Pop Pickers, that’s got you thinking ‘Now…what year was that?’) I was going through quite a messy split from long term girlfriend, Ruby. The reasons for the split? Well they were complicated (Fred) and hard to explain (her boss) – it’s OK, I’m over it now, and I got custody of the Photo-Me booth strips of the pair of us. However, suffice to say I may have had this on my mind a bit.

One night I went to bed in my flat in Bow only to be awoken in the small hours, unable to move, for sitting on my chest was a cackling, wizened old hag with the unmistakeable, though distorted features of Ruby. As I looked up at her, still pinned at my chest, she suddenly grew incredibly tall, her head almost  disappearing from view in the madly distorted perspective. ….and she was gone.

Too much Guinness?

No. Its actualy quite common.  Sleep paralysis as it is known, is a phenomenon in which people, either when falling asleep or wakening, temporarily experience an inability to move. It is a transitional state between wakefulness and rest characterised by complete muscle atonia (muscle weakness). It can occur at sleep onset or upon awakening, and can be associated with terrifying visions (e.g. an intruder in the room or sitting on the sleeper), to which one is unable to react due to paralysis. It is believed a result of disrupted REM sleep, which is associated with complete muscle atonia that prevents individuals from acting out their dreams. It exists in a similar form in many cultures around the world . In Finnish and Swedish folklore for instance, the culprit is a mare, a supernatural creature. The mare is a damned woman, who is cursed and her body is carried mysteriously during sleep and without her noticing. In this state, she visits villagers to sit on their rib cages while they are asleep, causing them to experience nightmares. The “Old Hag” was a nightmare spirit in British and North American folklore. In Vietnam it is called ma đè, meaning “held down by a ghost,” or bóng đè, meaning “held down by a shadow.”

Fuseli: ‘The Nightmare’ 1782

© Andy Daly 2013

One Word Book Review

Here’s ‘Sitting Comfortably’s guide to what’s hot and what’s barely lukewarm in my world of books in the form of a one word review.

Mhairi McFarlane

‘You Had Me At Hello’ - Yes

Pete Townshend

‘Who I am’ - Disappointment

Maggie O’Farrell

‘The Hand That First Held Mine’ – Touching

‘After You’d Gone’ - Bereft

Nick Hornby

‘Everyone’s Reading Bastard …’ -Bitch

Jojo Moyes

‘The Girl You Left Behind’ - Stunner

‘Ship Of Brides’ – Epic

‘Silver Bay’ - Convincing

‘The Peacock Emporium’ – Tiresome

Danny Baker

‘Going To Sea  In A Sieve’ - Affirmation

Paul Myers

‘A Wizard A True Star: Todd Rundgren In The Studio’ - Genius

David Nichols

‘A Wizard A True Star: The Unusual Career Of Todd Rundgren’ - Unreadable

John O’Farrell

‘This Is Your Life’ – Implausible

‘The Man Who Forgot His Wife’ – Read

‘May Contain Nuts’ – Nuts

Anne Tyler

‘The Ladder Of Years’ -Minutiae

Ken Follett

‘Fall Of Giants’ - Masterstoryteller

‘Winter Of The World’ - Masterstoryteller#2

Chris Welch

Genesis: The Complete Guide – Shite

P G Wodehouse

‘Jeeves Omnibus’ - Spiffing

© Andy Daly 2013