hay-on-wye

It was in 1900 that Lord Kelvin, renowned British scientist and the toast of the establishment, addressed a group of physicists
After half an hour waiting in my second cue of the day I was catatonic. The people behind were chatty at first but grew markedly frosty when little Sylvian exclaimed (finger pointing for dramatic effect) she's the one that booed bankers in the Tata tent!
The International Book Fair is just another step in putting down the foundations that a stable and democratic country needs. In a troubled region, Somaliland has shown what can be achieved with determination.
Britain's wealth of secondhand bookshops are going out of business "at a frightening speed", an expert has warned. A generation
Loneliness saps the will to live and can be a major cause of depression, as one 80-year-old lady told me "I wake each morning, get dressed, and sit on my bed waiting for death. I have nothing else to look forward to." ChildLine has proved, as Samaritans proved before it, that an anonymous helpline can break through the barriers of shame or fear. So I suggested that The Silver Line might do the same for the older generation, and enable callers to disclose not just their loneliness, but incidents of neglect and abuse they dared not admit to anyone else. And so it has proved.
The busiest 10 days of Hay On Wye 2012 has now passed as the town is left in a kind of post apocalyptic mess of muddy fields, empty portaloos and dirty windswept awnings leftover from the Hay Literary Festival.
I'm standing in a paisley tent in Hay-on-Wye at the HowTheLightGetsIn festival and seeing art unfold. A camera is positioned to capture Stella Vine's 12 hour painting marathon on a huge canvas. She is disarmingly open. The kind of dedicated true artist who looks at you directly and makes you feel you are in the presence of a spirit.
Every summer in Britain we flock in our thousands to outdoor festivals promising music, comedy and theatre, always hoping
I met a literary agent the other day. She told me that these days when you sell a novel to publishers, there has to be a USP. "A what?" I said. "'Unique Selling Point. You know, narrated by a hermaphrodite, or someone who has been repeatedly raped by their grandfather, that sort of thing.
I have been invited to take part in HowTheLightGetsIn, the music and philosophy festival, at Hay on Wye on 8 June. At first I said thanks very much but no, as I presumed they meant some kind of talking event, which would have filled me with dread, but they said I had the freedom to think of something creative.