Being known as a personality can’t be all good. For all the fun that goes with quickness and dazzle, it surely becomes a little dangerous when you come to write an autobiography, or a memoir – whatever the distinction between these two terms is. This occurred to me when, passing the buoyant, bow-tied strider depicted on the front cover, I began to read Patrick McCaughey’s new book, subtitled A Memoir. After all, I have known the author for forty years here and there, in this role or that. Indeed, I remember him as a sixth-former, up at university to hear a literature lecture for schools, given by one of the English Department staff. Yellow scarf tossed back over the shoulder, he challenged her vigorously at question time. That’s one to watch, we thought.
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