Top tips

Eat lots of sweets before you start writing. All that sugar will fill your head of crazy ideas.
Wise words for aspiring young writers in The Times today. Maybe I'll take up this approach...

Bristol versus Lyon

Is British food really that much worse than French food? Two years on from my French sejour, I've returned to a question that I was often asked in Lyon. Well, actually, it was most often less of a question and more of a snigger; I'd be required to defend the food of our little island - our pies, jars of Marmite, bowls of jelly - to sophisticated Frenchies with palates more accustomed to fine foie gras than fish fingers. Oh, and insist that no, we Brits don't eat cooked breakfast every day, or stop to have tea and cake every afternoon. Just the other day I was asked what the food specialities were in Lyon, so I thought I'd write a gastronomic head-to-head for Lyon and Bristol. And seeing as I'm British, the conclusion should have been foregone. It all started well. Lyon's andouillete - a tripe sausage - is a local favourite. But, come on, who actually wants to eat pig's intestines? Which means that the intestine-free sausages served up by the brilliant St Nicholas Market suasage man win hands down.

Bring on the rest of the main courses. In Lyon, a wise diner would choose one of the more generically French dishes but someone hoping to sample everything Lyonnaise might succumb to the lure of the pike quenelle, another much-hyped speciality. Don't be fooled. Creamed fish bound together with egg yolk, boiled, and smothered in cream sauce? I'd take a Bristol Pieminster pie any day.

On to pudding. Ah, here I thought, Lyon would take a leap ahead. Chocolate fondant is hard to beat, although its richness might defeat you. But then I discovered the best chocolate brownies ever in the Lansdown pub which threw this conclusion into doubt. And THEN I discovered large drifts of unpicked blackberries in Ashton Court and on the Avon Gorge riverside path. Stand aside Lyon. Just as paper always beats stone, blackberry and apple always beats chocolate.

With Bristol clearly in the lead, it was time for a moment of reflection. Could little ole Bristol beat the so-called capital of gastronomy? It was then I realised it couldn't. OK, so some of Lyon's signature dishes might not be to my taste, but if you avoid those you'll feast like a king for not much at all. Fondue, foie gras, salade lyonnaise, pain perdu. Cheese, croissants, baguette and coffee. (It's not exactly a healthy diet!) Take your pick. And, best of all, lunch breaks really are breaks, not huddles behind computer screens with sandwiches, and people not only eat, they talk. Ho-hum. Perhaps it's time to move back to France?

A piano with a view

They're here! 16 pianos are now on the streets of Bristol...

The Year of the Flood

If the words 'book signing' say endless queues, a brief, bland encounter with a writer and a hastily scribbled signature to you, here's an event to prove otherwise. Margaret Atwood's current tour for her latest book The Year of the Flood is oh-so-much-more than your bog-standard book signing. The required reading becomes a performance, narrated by the author, starring local actors and musicians and with a specially commissioned score. An interview follows, as do appearances by local green groups - turns out Atwood is pretty keen on her environmental friendliness - and that's before the 70-year-old Canadian even picks up a pen. Phew. Watch this space for more - Atwood's coming to Bristol this Wednesday. Or for a real writer's take on it, Atwood's blog is here.

Bill Bailey in Bristol

Off to see the master of comedy keyboard tonight. Here's a taster.

zzzzzzzz

... still catching up on sleep ...

More sleep, less art please

Far too little sleep in the name of art this week (oh yes, how noble (who am I kidding - how pretentious) it sounds put like that). Philip Glass's Violin Concerto and Bansky vs Bristol Museum owe me a lie-in. More about both to fol... zzzz....

All very Scilly

Just spotted a few thoughts by Matthew Parris of The Times on the Isles of Scilly. Bryher, the island on which I spent ten summers, is no bigger than a mile one way, a mile and a half the other, with a population of less than 100, but that little piece of Atlantic-beaten land, with its hidden beaches, expansive views and rocky outcrops, from the soft sands of Rushy Bay to steep drops of Hell Bay, is like nowhere else I've been. I haven't returned for nearly another ten summers, afraid the age of tourism might have spoilt its wildness, but perhaps it's weathered the storm...

'When first I visited, some years ago, the Isles of Scilly were, for me, the most unexpected place. I had thought “tame”. They are wild. I’d thought “manicured”. They are unkempt. I’d thought “herbaceous borders”. They are rock-strewn moor and grassland. I’d thought “cream teas and sightseeing tours on the hour”. Instead, heaving seas and occasional inter-island ferries with wooden seats.

This August, on a two-day break for my 60th birthday, I had thought “crowded beaches in August”. But the empty white sand beaches and clear water bays were almost lonely: a magical sojourn on the island of Bryher, cut off from transport and the holiday crowds, and with a desperate scramble to find a boat to the next island on the morning we had to leave.

Little more, really, than a slew of ragged granite outcroppings flung out into the ocean off the end of Cornwall; the fingers of rock and steep little fields didn’t swim into view from the haze on the Atlantic horizon until just after we’d lost sight of Land’s End. Somehow that matters.'

From London to Bristol

When you're walking the streets of Bristol this September, don't be surprised if you happen across a piano. And if, after looking over your shoulder to see who's watching, you feel tempted to sit down and, haltingly, attempt to pick out a tune or tiptoe up a scale that echoed in your childhood, or even launch into some Rachmaninov or improvise like Art Tatum, feel free. These pianos are ours.

Balloon crazy

At this weekend's annual hot air balloon fiesta in Bristol, I may have taken one too many photos... don't worry though, I'll spare you the many and just share one.

Thought

There was a parchment moon last night, its yellow surface written on in ink. Ink that's now faded, gradually pushing the story it enshrined into silence.

Stars in stripes

All those stripey tops in the film Coco avant Chanel reminded me of a picture that always makes me smile - Le Pains de Picasso Enjoy.