Mum: It is very big though, isn't it?

Boy: No, it's not.

Mum: And well, it isn't very nice either.

Son: I wanted something unique. Personal. It's a statement.

Mum: I'm just very concerned that you'll regret it in the future.

Son: Everyone has tattoos.

Dad: (quietly) I thought you were trying to be different.

Mum: And it is very disappointing that you used your rent money from us to pay for it. How much did it cost?

Dad: No point asking how much it cost. It's done now.

Son: It wasn't very expensive.

Dad: And that's why it looks so crap and you're a bloody idiot. If you're going to live with it for the rest of your life you should have spent proper money on it and got a good one.

(Ends)

* Formerly Brighton Scenes... but now I have crossed the border...thus the new name.

Anna and her father have moved from London to the southern seaside town of Winter. A quaint and old-fashioned community replete with salty seadogs, meddling mums, picturesque harbour, wobbling sea defences and an ancient castle. Anna not only has to struggle with settling in at a new school far away from her friends, but within days of arrival she has accidentally discovered her latent powers and enchanted the school heartthrob, Seth.

Her chaotic, sometimes accidental, spell weaving draws the attention of the friendly local coven and the more sinister witching authorities who have spies everywhere. The scene is swiftly set for a tumultuous struggle between the different witch factions that will bring chaos to Winter and test Anna's love for Seth.

A Witch in Winter is one of those YA (young adult) books that are seen by many to be the saviour of the publishing industry. As observers will know, magic, vampires and the like are the crucial elements of these books in a post-Twilight world. And whilst Warburton's book has witches and magic galore, it is also intelligent enough to examine the nature of love and attraction in a perfectly sophisticated way for a YA book. Let us not disillusion the poor lambs before we have to.

Warburton's skill as a storyteller is where she excels and here she also transcends genre. I hope she'll write something for grown ups in due course. With panache and relative economy, she reveals the town and people of Winter, and presents a 3D community and a plausible arena, with sympathetic warriors for and against, ready for the violent denouement.

The near total lack of any modern technology did strike me as odd. A Witch in Winter has a delightfully gothic-lite vibe about it and bar a text message or two, some phone usage and a throw away comment about Google, the book is entirely technology free. I wonder if younger readers might reject that or even embrace it? I don't know. But the absence of Facebook and the like felt incongruous. For this crumbling reader it felt like a lost opportunity to further explore witchcraft and the manifold legends of Winter further.

But I quibble. This is an accomplished book, fizzing with plot and promise. I do care about Anna Winterson and worry about Seth. If a storyteller should be graded on anything it's whether they spark curiosity in the reader about what happens next. And I'm not just curious, but anxious and expectant. Bring on A Witch in Love!

Disclosure: Ruth Warburton has been a friend of mine since went to school together in Lewes.. which bears a striking resemblance to Winter in the book, now I think of it...

At first the title irked. It felt like a glib Richmal Crompton reference, promising a jolly jape guide to Boris Johnson and all those larks people seem to love him for, whilst offering nothing solid. How wrong. Just Boris is a very clever title for a book offering reams of evidence and which doesn't shy away from the boot and putting it in. And yet, despite Sonia Purnell's considerable craft and skill, she admits herself as author that Boris remains strangely out of reach.

Just Boris. He's usually called just Boris. No surname. It's just Boris: a usual shrug forgiving his latest gaffe or infidelity. Just Boris: he's a bit of a loner, without a political gang or indeed ally outside his family. Or, perhaps most damning from Sonia Purnell, just Boris may be the man's political philosophy. His political career is just for him. He does apparently harbour the ambition, indeed the destiny, that just Boris will be primus inter pares.

The simple fact is that Boris Johnson simply isn't who he seems. He ruffles his hair before the camera rolls or shuts. His first name is Alexander, and his family and wife call him Al. The chimera Boris emerged at Eton and was honed at Oxford. He is hardly that posh or aristocratic, his family are neither devastatingly rich by any Etonian standard and he is also not necessarily as clever as many people assume, despite the constant classical references. His particular skill seems to be provocation.

Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson was born in New York, had a peripatetic childhood and his parents divorced when they lived in Belgium. His mother is American, there is a strong Turkish vibe in his lineage and his wife is half Indian. His father claims to be “dogged” by good luck. The question that Purnell keeps asking is right: Who the hell is this man and what does he want?

The books swings elegantly through his time with the Times (he got sacked for faking a quote), the Telegraph (where he was famed for tardiness) and through to his tenure as editor of the Spectator.

His time as an MP for Henley and campaign for the Mayoralty are examined forensically. In fact, maybe too much. This is a big book. His affairs and misbehaviours are manifold and major. But yet Boris just bounces back again and again and became the most powerful Conservative in Britain, for a while.

The most damning criticism is levelled at Mayor Boris. That he just really isn't very good at the job ought to stick. His achievements are sparse. And yet it seems likely he will be re-elected, whilst still harbouring none too secret ambitions to lead the Tories and be PM.

Just Boris is an addictive book that stirs nothing but disquiet. How has he slipped through the net? He gets away with everything and seems to suffer little scrutiny. There is no “just” about Boris.

Click on the picture to embiggen

It seems apt to dust off a postcard from my collection to mark the event. Here are some of the chaps on the lawn at the Pavilion. They must have been an exotic sight as the postcard starts on the back with: "I expect you would like to see this picture of the wounded Indians..."

Many a London/Brighton commuter will tell you how lovely the view is from the Ouse Valley Viaduct, and how they will look up from their newspapers, text messages, iPads and coffees to take in a glimpse of an exquisite English landscape. Few consider the bridge below.

It dominates the valley and towers over farmland and trees with delightful Victorian arrogance. It could never be built today. Look at the furore over HS2. But with 170 years of hindsight, it now feels like part of the countryside it defaces. The designers John Urpeth Rastrick and David Mocatta were clever fellows.

The viaduct is 1475 metres long and 29 metres high. 11 million bricks make 37 arches which still carry more than 100 trains a day over a structure completed in 1841. Significant restoration was undertaken in 1996, and doubtless maintenance occurs all the time, but it is remarkable that those engineers, architects and builders way back then built a structure of such resilience.

And yet their forward thinking vision is hardly unusual. It's such a useful reminder of what we owe those 19th century visionaries. Brunel, Bazelgette, Paxton, and Nash, to name too few, are all men we all much to. When you take a leak, a train or a walk in a public park, we salute those great people. Britain still rests on the tremendous foundations that 19th century industry and entrepreneurship made possible. People died too to make it happen, of course.

Whilst the Coalition cut every budget, and financiers refuse to fund any project that won't see a return within the year, we should think ahead. Are we building anything in 2011 that people in 2181 will appreciate and rely on? Not in my backyard.

(I'm sorry my photos aren't better. Go there and take better ones.)

Eton College

It's easy to make a political argument that private schools shouldn't be allowed to run state schools with taxpayers' money. That's not my beef today. My concern is much more managerial: Eton is not qualified, on a practical level.

Eton has it easy. The pupils want to learn and parents are supportive. Eton's a selective single-sex boarding school. Most boys go on to university, many to Oxbridge. Parents pony up £30k a year and their sons know it. Eton might look old-fashioned: outsiders see tail suits and exquisite architecture. But it's a bustling meritocracy, a hive of independent activity and pupils want to do well.

It is a remarkable place. Energetic, diligent and focussed on excellence. They learn Chinese and Arabic alongside Latin and Classics. Eton is based on the idea that everyone there must be good at something. Be that sport, study, music, drama, art or just being a bloody good bloke.

To a great extent, discipline comes from the boys themselves. Eton is not totalitarian these days and prefers carrots to sticks. Most boys want to succeed and so they work hard and play within the (none too onerous, but often absurd) rules.

I can't say the same for my time in the state sector. I recall students who simply didn't want to be there. Their aspirations had not been nurtured, they didn't have broad horizons and they would not cooperate. It's a tragedy that it is sometimes easier to let those kids find their low level. Every state school struggles with that dilemma. And Eton doesn't have an answer to dealing with those kids. It doesn't know they even exist.

Teachers at Eton have a standing start. The pupils want to participate. The men and women teachers, beaks, at Eton are learned and distinguished, dedicated and talented. But, and I mean this in no way uncharitably, they have a willing crowd. And I bet the remuneration isn't too shabby either.

When I think of the many good teachers I had in the state sector, few would have had trouble teaching at Eton. And then I consider my Eton beaks. Not that many (indeed very few), would prosper in a state school. Hardly a surprise when the teacher to boy ratio at Eton is 1/9. They would have no idea what to do with a genuine under-performer in need of help, a violent troublemaker or indeed the real rough and tumble of a truly, unruly class intent on chaos. And anyway, if those beaks wanted to teach in the state sector, they would surely have chosen that path.

Most beaks aren't trained teachers. Staff in the private sector don't require a PGCE. So what right would an Eton beak have to tell qualified teachers what to do? I suspect most Eton staff could learn a great deal more from their state counterparts rather than vice versa.

And then there's the money. Eton is staggeringly rich. According to their own figures, the school's original foundation amounts to £200m and that provides 11% of Eton's annual income (but I suspect that Eton's total wealth is far greater than that). Full fees at Eton are £30k a year for boys without a scholarship. The school totals 1300 pupils. For a boy from a state school well pleased with £2000 from the Summer Fayre, this sounds like a lot of money.

But Eton wants more. A recent booklet from Eton says of the income from the original foundation: “this is not enough. An institution of Eton's standing should receive between two and four times as much support from its endowment.” I take this to mean that Eton thinks it needs close to £1bn in investments to keep ticking over. And remember, this is an institution with charitable status. Eton gets generous tax breaks from that.

How would this translate to running a state school? Would Eton give any money from it own enormous wealth? I doubt it. Eton's consideration of a school budget in the state sector would be like NASA realising it could only afford an Airfix kit.

The crux of why Eton shouldn't be allowed to run a state school lies with my heartfelt belief that I don't think they want to. The booklet I mentioned before was called “Keep Eton, Eton.” That is not the name of a manifesto for change. They have resisted the temptation since 1440, so why would it be on the agenda now? Self-interest. They'll do what it takes to retain the massive financial benefits they enjoy from their charitable status.

If Eton takes a state school on, it will be because it makes sense for the mothership. It's not for nothing that anything persists for nearly six centuries without a keen sense of self-preservation.

The clue is in the school's motto: Floreat Etona. Let Eton Flourish. If letting Eton flourish means taking on a state school or two to keep their privileged financial benefits, they will. But the motivation will not be a benevolent desire to run the best of state schools.

I fear that Cameron wants state schools that look like Eton. But without selection, well paided staff and oodles of cash, that's not possible. It's also not attractive. He should concentrate on replicating the most successful state schools we have by funding them properly. But he wouldn't understand that. He went to Eton.

I intend to sell it on eBay, so I asked that veritable fount of knowledge on glassware and curios, Lynne Clark aka Josordoni on eBay.

We came up with a working theory. It's likely contemporary with the young princesses featured on the jelly mould. We think that dates it during the second half of the 1930s. It's unlikely that such a frivolous item would have been produced in the austerity of war. Lynne came up with an occasion when such a thing might have been used: King George VI's coronation on 12th May 1937.

It's not hard to imagine street parties in 1937 replete with such jellies. Educated guesses, for sure, but still speculation. Does anyone have any better ideas? Calling all Royal Memorabilia and Kitchenalia specialists!

The pictures in this post will give you an idea. I'll do better ones when I list it on eBay. By the way, I'm not listing it on eBay til September. The August bank holiday weekend is the nadir of eBay's year trafficwise. I want eyeballs!

Who is Charlie Conti?

So he sets out to find it, only to gradually realise that his own naivety, isolation and wealth make him the perfect victim for identity theft.

Von Bohlen maintains an engaging pace, with a keenly crafted plot and a slow reveal, by drawing together vignettes from Conti's past to help us understand how he comes to be penniless in a Nevada diner waiting for an FBI agent. There is genuine tenderness and insight into Conti, even if we don't every really understand him. Ray Celador, the conman, is richly drawn, plausible and likeable.

The road trip aspects of the novel draw unabashedly from, and with direct reference to, Jack Kerouac's On the Road. But it's impossible not to draw comparisons with Catcher in the Rye and also, less directly, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. And why not? The great American novel is a rich seam to mine. Conti is an outsider, bemused by the US, and the reader is encouraged to look at the American dream anew.

The book does have some flaws. The narrator's preppy, Holden Caulfieldesque voice slips here and there and von Bohlen's own english peeks through. The portraits of american landscapes and cities, coast too closely to caricature sometimes, even if they are richly drawn. The takes on LA, Mexico, the big country outside Vegas and New Orleans are enjoyable but lack grit. The book's about the descent from privilege to nobody, and yet there is sense that Charlie Conti may actually enjoy this rather too much.

The backcover calls Who is Charlie Conti? a “thriller with a literary twist.” A bit more thrill (a bit more) would have been welcome. It's gripping as is, but more bangs, perhaps even a denouement with the enigmatic Ray Celador, would have made the tale more compelling. But that is a quibble: there are twists and chicanes, and the ending is unexpected. It's tantalising that the book's title question does, essentially, remain unanswered.

Who is Charlie Conti? is a gripping read and perfect for the holidays (especially if you find yourself on the sands of the Mexican Gulf) and I'm looking forward already to reading von Bohlen's next novel: To Greet the Sun.

Disclaimer: Claus is a friend from school. So close in fact, that I haven't seen him since. :O)

In woodland, near London, there is a burial park. It is serene and natural. It is, quite simply, a forest where people are buried. There are no stone memorials. It is unspoilt and, in due course, when we are all gone, it will just be forest again.

In that wood there are some buildings where people mourn and say goodbye. The buildings are simple, dignified and non-religious. They are made of glass and wood.

We gathered in one of those buildings to say farewell to Sue. Words were spoken, music was played, tears were shed. We all remembered the woman we missed already. We looked upon her wicker coffin and celebrated a life cut short. I wondered whether we could have avoided being there at all.

As I half-listened to the celebrant, and was invited to reflect with the music, I found myself looking out into the woodland through the windows. It was tipping it down. But still the birds flitted from tree to tree. They were Blue Tits, or the like, I'm no twitcher. The birds were many and lively. I took joy from that: it is a woodland full of life. I wanted one of those birds to be Sue's spirit finding freedom. But I don't believe in a world like that.

And soon after, in the pouring rain, we walked under umbrellas to Sue's final resting place. Slipping along the muddy pathways in the forest, we followed the pallbearers through the trees. Bracken covered the mound of clay soil that would soon fill the hole we gathered around. With a few more words and a lot more tears, our friend was lowered gently down. The rain didn't stop.

And when it was done, we paused for a fleeting moment by that hole before walking from the forest. I wonder if I will ever return.

And then to an old pub. Beer, tea, sandwiches and laughter. So many lovely stories. And tears too. I met her family. Kind people. The rain didn't stop. The rain kept falling that day. I'm glad it rained.

I've struggled to make sense of anything in the past few weeks. But I do know it was good to say farewell to Sue in the way we did. I will miss her so much.

On Thursday, in the wood, as I walked away from her grave, I stooped to pick up a muddy pine cone from the forest floor. I wanted a souvenir and it was an obvious keepsake. The pine cone was damp when I touched it. Like a wooden bullet, it was hard and clenched. I left it on my desk when I got home.

When I sat down to write these words a few days later, it seemed odd that the pine cone was dry and open, like a flower. Why was I surprised? Life goes on.

Click on the image above to embiggen

Take a look for yourself. This is what Anders Behring Breivik bought on eBay, apparently.

The Telegraph is reporting that Norwegian terrorist and confessed murderer Anders Breivik bought some of his equipment and supplies on eBay.

They say he used the now suspended eBay ID andrewbrei. At least one seller will now be regretting that he called Breivik as "a nice fellow to deal with."

A quick look at this buying record does suggest that Anders Breivik was planning his attacks, months and months in advance.

What was he buying? See for yourself on the left. Some sulpher, plastic tubing, protective clothing, something that looks like a telescopic sight.

 The Telegraph says: "MI5 is thought to monitor eBay and other internet sites for individuals buying chemicals which can be used for terrorism."

I have no doubt. The Police certainly look at eBay for stolen goods. HMRC definitely keep an eye on the site. I would be very surprised if the security services don't do the same. eBay is very open.

My advice to anyone who wants to use eBay for any nefarious purpose? Think a bit. If you want to go under the radar, go to small offline retailers and use cash. And don't use your real name.

For a full screengrab of what Anders Breivik bought, with seller's IDs, that's here.

Anders Breivik's eBay feedback page uncropped, that's here.