About
An old man who has always written for pleasure, has lived to tell the tale – several tales, in fact, of a life well-lived. Some of which are finally available now.
Time …
Tales from the Somewhere Else
Time in its shredded form
A few words (109), regarding Shredded Time by
Lindsay Barrett:
The third in a sequence of novels set in Chelsea, London, between 1861 and 1971. A racy and compelling story containing many elements, not least a murder-thriller with political overtones.
An unwitting insider’s view of the Lost Children of the Empire, the Atomic Generation, and the fag-end of the New Age Movement of the 1960s. Fast and exciting, a compulsive read; Nathaniel West
collides with Hubert Selby Junior.
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Time …
More Time
… the fag-end of the New Age Movement
The Lost Children of Empire
An unwitting insider’s view of the Lost Children of the Empire, the Atomic Generation, and the fag-end of the New Age Movement of the 1960s. Fast and exciting, a compulsive read; Nathaniel West
collides with Hubert Selby Junior.
Lindsay Barrett is a talented
writer from Chelsea with many completed books to his name; he is currently
planning a novel entitled Sophiatown set in South Africa
1953 to 1956.
‘Bread for Heads’ is a huge success.
‘Bread for Heads’ is a huge success. New Age generation types are turning up in their droves. Long-haired, unkempt, drug addled, broke, clothes of many colours. Young, beautiful, black and white. A mass of outsiders, male and female, descending on the basement office in Hollywood Road. The children of the Empire are out in force this week.
Having the story of a commune of young experimental artists is not enough. It will only get you so far, but it won’t make for a sale. You can’t just sit there and let people flick through your art folder making comments. There may well be a child crying. A dog barking. The telephone rings. Maybe the couple were having a heated disagreement and you’ve suspended their argument for the moment. The television set is on in the corner of the room. All of this you have to contend with. You have to take control. You may well be a young artist from a West London commune, but for now you have to be an entertainer. Set yourself up in front of the television. Make the couple smile or laugh in some way. Refuse any offers of food or drink, only goes to confuse matters and displace time.
Scott on the pavement outside the office, loading the art folders into the boot of the Morris Eleven Hundred. Wistfully glancing over at Keaton’s Restaurant. It exudes a friendly allure that makes him want to go in and drink real coffee and eat a slice of chocolate cake. He hasn’t the time and anyway it’s too early in the game. Have to get settled into a rhythm before you can indulge in treats. Underneath what appears to be haphazard chaos, you have to have a defined rhythm that gets you through the day, or else all will be lost to chance and the will of disaster.
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