While the engagement with place gives the piece an immediacy that phone-based interviews with experts simply can’t supply, it’s the choice of interviewee that gives the article both its authority and a certain tension between the hands-on practicality of crime-scene investigation and the more theoretical lab-based work that Dr Hall seems currently engaged in. That tension is, expertly, made explicit in the final sentence.

The water I will draw tomorrow from my tap in Malibu is today crossing the Mojave Desert from the Colorado River, and I like to think about exactly where that water is. The water I will drink tonight in a restaurant in Hollywood is by now well down the Los Angeles Aqueduct from the Owens River, and I also think about exactly where that water is: I particularly like to imagine it as it cascades down the 45-degree stone steps that aerate Owens water after its airless passage through the mountain pipes and siphons.

I’ve been running for years – but on and off, always for fitness, never as a way of life. I can always quit – and do – but always come back to it.

My short essay, Running the streets

The concept of making music for the last 20 years [after The Police] has been fun; in the context of The Police, it was hell.

I was doing my mock O-levels in the Summer of Love. I was seeing this stuff just by going to concerts occasionally. I saw Jimi Hendrix and the Pink Floyd in 1967 in a wrestling hall in Cardiff. I saw Bob Dylan and the Band in a cinema where they were showing The Sound of Music in Cardiff. I saw the Rolling Stones in 1964 when I was 12, just a week before “Not Fade Away” came out. I was a kid going to school — there was no way I was getting involved in any countercultural sort of activity. I was just a consumer. I was one of those mainstream kids that was being swept into the belly of bohemianism by the Beatles and Dylan and the Stones and the rest. So I totally understood that, and so when I came in, it was all starting to fall apart.

Ghost estates appeared as cautionary symbols of Ireland’s property crash, but other potent examples of architectural and planning madness jostled for the position as most symbolic of the country’s economic disintegration. The docklands headquarters of Anglo Irish Bank – an institution whose own practices came to stand for Celtic Tiger hubris, and whose lax credit policies bankrolled many Dublin developments – remain incomplete.


When Ireland win, Dunphy and Giles grumble ineffectually, pointing out the shortcomings of the manager’s tactics – which are either ‘negative’ or ‘positive’ to Dunphy and Giles, who disdain all that ‘false nine’ shite. But when the national side lose, they come into their own – Dunphy pursing his lips, preening like a tit, and gleefully pushing a big red button marked ‘your own nihilism’.
Dead Air and Circuses: Punditry in Ireland

Perec’s experiments in the everyday, or what he called the ‘infra-ordinary’ were often highly circumscribed. During many of the (largely unpublished) descriptive texts written for the Lieux project, Perec severely limited his field of vision, and curbed the amount of commentary he would provide within the texts: they would either be attempts at neutral description, or they would not be. As a result, one gets the feeling of tuning in to the emergency channel of a shortwave radio: quite a lot of not very much, occasionally punctuated by an unforeseen event.

Will Self’s radiator: how do writers keep warm?

I know that we’re meant to be writing here about things that really trouble us, but I just don’t see how that can ever be the case. A writer’s only possible relation to his or her failings has to be one of gratitude. First because there are hundreds of other writers out there whose strengths lie precisely in these areas of weakness. Second because these weaknesses oblige us to concentrate on the one or two little areas that are uniquely – and, as far as every other writer is concerned, undesirably – our own.