Tag: Writing

Waking Up in Morden

September 12, 2026

I read my story ‘Waking up in Morden’ as part of Sutton Writers’ contribution to the celebrations of Morden tube station’s 100th birthday. The first part is also included in a frame in the gallery on the station.

It’s not very long, so here’s the whole thing.

Waking up in Morden

He meant to change at Bank but fell asleep and woke up in Morden.

‘Not again!’ he said, ‘I can’t keep doing this.’

It was always Morden. Somehow he never found himself regaining consciousness in Wimbledon or Richmond.

Who named this place, anyway? If Morden were a character in a story, they would be the detective’s arch enemy, the supervisor of a grim Victorian orphanage, or the leader of the evil wizards. Morden! It was the end of the line. It sounded like a choked-off protest against the termination of all trains: hey, ain’t dere supposed to be more den dis?

His evening was gone, though, drained away into the darkness of that long, long tunnel. This time he got off and went out, past all the pointless buses that didn’t go anywhere he wanted to be. He crossed the busy road: looking back he noticed that the station was actually a rather nice building. He decided to award himself the consolation of a kebab.

Perhaps there was some special magic in those strips of meat, or perhaps it was just the ordinary kind that comforts the hangry and calms the mind. In any case it was nicer than the inexpertly microwaved ready meal he might have had at home. He began to feel better about being in Morden. Sometimes it was good not to plunge straight back into the underworld battle of the tube but instead make the best of where you were. It would, he knew, take him a long time to get home from here.

Then the mad thought entered his mind. If you lived in Morden, you’d be home already! Could you, did people, live in Morden? Was that what his subconscious wanted all along, and was that why he kept ending up here? Did it somehow magically know something he didn’t? Was there, for example, could there be, that someone in Morden that Fate wanted him to meet, a person who was part of his destiny? The Lady of Morden. Surely that was a mad idea? No-one came to Morden seeking romance. What was he thinking, and seriously, what did they put in these kebabs?

Everything seemed to have turned on its head. If you lived here or nearby, Morden might be the daylight at the end of the tunnel. The place where ten thousand people every day escaped the clutches of London, raising their eyes and breathing a little more freely. All right, not that freely, but still.

He discovered he actually felt excited about the idea of moving here. It was kind of neat: instead of finding a way to stop falling asleep on the tube, you just moved to Morden. It seemed so obvious he began to wonder whether all the other people around him had been led here by similar reasoning. It really could be glad, confident Morden again. Not so much your final destination as the gateway to the rest of your life.

Finishing the kebab, he went out to look in an estate agent’s window.

Escher

August 26, 2026

I went to the exhibition in Somerset House. It’s really a show of two halves. First, they have an extensive collection of original lithographs, including all the greatest hits. If you have a favourite Escher picture it’s here. I found myself tempted to take pictures of every one, thereby producing a poor copy of the Escher book I’ve owned for fifty years.

Although Escher made his own lithographs, and typically only about 20-30 copies of each work, you don’t get here the strong sense of the artist’s own hand that you would with a Rembrandt painting or a Goya print. It’s almost as if Escher was striving for pure objectivity. There are some pictures, especially early ones, where he seems to be aiming for a sense of romance or sentiment, but it is entirely absent from these almost spookily clean and empty buildings.

In the end, or perhaps always, he went for mathematical rather than emotional depth, and brilliantly achieved it. The exhibition notes rightly say his work is highly esteemed by scientists who see it as a bridge between maths and art. I’m not sure how strongly artists share this feeling.

The other half of the show is some gimmicky fun stuff: a hall of mirrors, a size illusion room, and a couple of ‘insert yourself into the picture’ things. I did succumb to one of those. Escher was rather serious, though, and I don’t think he would have liked this. The exhibition includes some Escher-influenced album covers, but not the incredibly rude and curt response he sent in answer to a flattering personal letter from Mick Jagger. The exhibition mentions that the hippy movement appropriated Escher images, creating day-glo versions with new trippy titles, and says that Escher hated them. But the exhibition still includes a small room full of them.

So you could say there’s something here for serious Escher fans and for those who want something the kids can enjoy. I’m glad I went but have a slight feeling I would have done nearly as well by spending an hour with that old book.

Cosy

May 3, 2026

I see that Philippa Perry is publishing a ‘cosy’ murder story. It features a character apparently based on the Rev. Richard Coles, a neighbour and friend and also of course another celebrity who has written cosy murder stories. Perhaps Richard Osman pops round from time to time?

Now I don’t read detective stories. I don’t want to rant about celebrities using their position to stick their elbows in the faces of more deserving writers. All of these people are clever, talented, and genuinely interesting. But they don’t have to struggle to get their fiction published. Couldn’t they use that opportunity to do something just slightly more ambitious than cosy village murders? Apparently not: it seems they still want to avoid even the most minimal literary risk. Shall we draw on our intelligence and complex life experiences to craft a novel with insight, originality and flair? No, no: what if it flopped? Let’s stay cosy. I suppose we should perhaps be grateful they didn’t all produce more godawful celebrity children’s books.

Really, guys, raise your game, as you are surely capable of doing.