It reminds of a former colleague, a journalist I hugely admired. He was a 'colour writer' in the days when that didn't mean prose that was purely purple.
John had the knack of being able to capture the essence and atmosphere of wherever he was, whether it was in Tiananmen Square, riding for his life on a borrowed Flying Pigeon bicycle or writing about the funeral of an East End gangster.
He left journalism to start a second family, but hasn't lost his style - I read a piece we wrote about being shipwrecked off the Shetlands - written when he was still dripping from being winched off the upturned hull of his boat - that brought the old lump to the Anyway, I'm wittering...
The point is, I asked John once how he would sum up his style. He looked over the edge of his glass and said: 'The fact is, Im very stupid. ' He grinned, and went on: 'Mparents squandered a fortune on an education that went straight over my head, and university was out of the question. So I thought I'd try journalism, starting on a local paper and working up.
I suddenly found that here was one area where it paid to be stupid. You askagain for answers that everyone thinks they know, just to clarify it them you own slow mind.
'And when you're describing something, if you look at it from the point of view of the ordinary person in the street - or even a 12 year old child - then you can begin to explain how what you are seeing is what happens at the other end of politics and after all the clever people have done their bit.' It sounds trite, but what I admired was that John was able to admit that he'd never stopped looking at the world through the eyes of an incredibly inquisitive but not academically bright 12-year-old, and to know that it made him a beter writer.
Sorry, a bit of a ramble, I know, but it late. Still time for one before closing time (10.30 on a Sunday? Absolutely bloody mad...but don't start me on that one!)