The Bard of Tysoe

“Beautiful writing. Each word pulls you towards the next in effortless momentum. Very much enjoy your work.”
— Mark Peter Beeson
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Sunday, 31 January 2016

The long (and winding) read:
May the First be with you…

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For my eighteenth birthday, a wise, good school-friend – one of two talented violinists I used to accompany on the piano ( she is now...

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Saturday, 30 January 2016

There (and back again) before first light…

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A wise (or, on second thoughts, perhaps not so wise) man once tweeted : Advice to the deaf/ened with tinnitus/musical hallucinatio...

Sunday, 24 January 2016

But pay me terms of honour, cold and sickly…

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Ecce homo (influenza) It’s not just the sniffles, or trips to the loo; It’s not the aching of joints that you get with the flu; ...

Friday, 22 January 2016

Not How it was Supposed to be…

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The terror of Jeremy Hunt’s Monday morning meetings to review trusts’ debts and waiting lists forces managers to put satisfying the hea...

Wednesday, 20 January 2016

(Minus) eight degrees of reparation…

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Although my head felt a little like Trotsky ’s must have – or even because my head felt like that… – just before sunup (a little past...

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EVERYTHING YOU WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT THE BARD BUT WERE AFRAID TO ASK:

The Bard of Tysoe: Copeland, Cumbria, United Kingdom; Originally an amateur musician… — yet having worked in IT and marketing communication for a quarter of a century — both as manager and consultant; as well as writing for the Guardian… — the Bard retired for medical reasons; and now devotes his life to keeping as healthy as possible by putting one foot in front of another (badly, but semi-frequently); watching the world, with all its vagaries, go by (in great puzzlement); capturing what he sees (in words and pictures); and trying to leave a trail of happiness in his wake. What matters most to him are beauty, truth, cats, and fairness — in whatever myriad forms they occur — and he despises inequality, greed, fascists, and hate. His favourite occupation is thinking; and he was (therefore) — for a handful of years — the Orchestra of the Swan’s ‘writer in reticence’. You are now, though, most likely to encounter him staring into space, with a thoughtful grin beneath his wonted hat and dark glasses, walking stick in hand, somewhere in the quieter parts of the Northern, North Western, and Western Fells of Lakeland. (He resembles nothing so much as a badly-dressed Herdwick.)

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