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Boris Johnson’s First Year

Ferdinand Mount

Short Cuts: In the Bunker

Thomas Jones

Theban Power

James Romm

What can the WHO do?

James Meek

At the Type Archive

Alice Spawls

Where the Poor Lived

Alison Light

At the Movies: ‘Da 5 Bloods’

Michael Wood

Cultural Pillaging

Neal Ascherson

Jenny Offill

Adam Mars-Jones

Shakespeare v. the English

Michael Dobson

Poem: ‘Now Is the Cool of the Day’

Maureen N. McLane


David Trotter

Consider the Hare

Katherine Rundell

How Should I Refer to You?

Amia Srinivasan

Poem: ‘Field Crickets (Gryllus campestris)’

Fiona Benson

Diary: In Mali

Rahmane Idrissa


Turning Point

My host is a monk
on a long journey

from my grandfather’s
coast town, exploring

England like I did
these last dark ages.

Stopped temporarily
in a shared room

we meet on my less
noble travels:

discover we are
exactly the same age.

At ten I knew
I was misplaced;

he, at ten, also
made for change.

Twenty yards
of saffron robes

captured his boy’s

while mine slipped
on the slopes

of Tagaytay. He grew

decisive, unen-
cumbered in a shaved

head; I became
progressively with-

drawn, less certain,

Reaching our mid-thirties
– age of enlightenment –

he speaks, I listen
only half understanding

this language from my past.
I have stumbled

off the path, tripped
by his inflections.

Once we had in our
Colombo house

a Buddhist alms-giving
– feeding twenty monks.

We served, they ate.
This bright morning

at our breakfast
my laughing monk

serves me his home-
cooking, neatly

turning the tables
in a Manchester flat.


They brought a live pig
for an Independence Day feast.
I was too young to be

in on the brainstorm
that imported this idea
into our unorthodox home.

The slaughterer was professional
but the squeals of the animal
lasted all day. Our household

of helpers and helped
expressed doubts: ‘the blade
is blunt ...’

        ‘... pig has no throat.’
Our back yard had never seen
anything quite like it.

The grey flesh
like a map of Europe
was brushed with a burning torch.

At dinner the pig’s head
with an apple in its mouth
grinned from a silver tray.

                 * * *

In London the pigs came
on metal hooks, ready-
gutted, from an abattoir.

My job was to carry
a hundred-dead-weight
into a metropolitan store.

I quickly learned the art:
chucking English carcases
off my back.

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