In spite of fashion and a smoking band the ‘brotherhood of the briar’ proves largely unflappable
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‘It was as though, after a period of wariness, my pipe had warmed to me.’
In spite of fashion and a smoking band the ‘brotherhood of the briar’ proves largely unflappable
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‘I think there should be a National Service of Hospitality. The best way to see the true face of humanity is to serve it a plate of chips.’
Camilla Grudova on bad-mannered customers.
‘Anyone who has ever worked night shifts will understand the vertiginous feeling that comes with staring down the day from the wrong end.’
A.K. Blakemore on working nights.
‘I was constantly reading job ads, trying to find my holy grail – a job I could stand to do, and someone foolish enough to hire me.’
Sandra Newman on learning how to play professional blackjack.
‘I loved being a receptionist. What I loved about it was playing the part of being a receptionist.’
Emily Berry on being a temporary office worker.
‘Every part of you would swell, including your eyeballs, and no matter how much water you drank, you were always dehydrated.’
Junot Díaz on working for a steel mill.
Andrew Martin is a freelance writer living in London. He is the author of nine detective novels and four non-fiction books including, Ghoul Britannia, Notes on a Haunted Island, Underground, Overground: A Passenger's History of the Tube and most recently, Flight by Elephant, World War II's most Daring Jungle Mission. ‘The Rollercoaster Champion of the World’ appeared in Granta 79.
More about the author →‘At the moment, I would say that depends what you mean by ‘believe’ and what you mean by “God”’
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‘As he spoke, I thought how much Richard himself looked like a flyer: at forty-three he is symmetrical and compact, like Scott Tracy, the handsomest of those idealized pilots in Thunderbirds.’
‘Four Organs allows us to step out of time and briefly inhabit infinity.’
Maartje Scheltens on Steve Reich, repetition and discomfort.
‘At the entrance to the gynaecology clinic, I ring the bell.’
Fiction by Agnes Chew.
‘For nearly fifteen years I wrote hundreds of letters that weren't from me. They ranged from perfunctory thank-you notes and expressions of condolence, to extensive correspondence with the great and the good: politicians, newspaper editors, bishops, members of the House of Lords.’
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