Clive F Sorrell
In 1942 I began life in Farnborough Hospital as a VI flying bomb detonated nearby. When I was six my family emigrated to Australia only to return to England when I was ten.
At fourteen I returned to Australia and began working in an advertising agency where I changed water pots and cleaned brushes for layout artists. Two years at night school resulted in becoming the youngest Licentiate Member of the Australian Advertising Institute.
When eighteen I returned to England and took the position of trainee typographer in a London agency. I developed as an art director then copywriter, creative director and finally executive creative director with a number of national and multi-national advertising agencies.
My writing ability gained twenty awards including a British Television Advertising Award, three Clios and a Cairo Film Festival gold for radio, television and print work during a creative career that began in Australia before moving to London, Johannesburg, (London again), Jeddah and Dubai. I was twice invited to be a judge.
After fifty years in advertising I retired and returned from the Middle East to Suffolk. It was then I exchanged writing advertising faction for fiction and with Sophia, my wife, actively supporting me as a professional proofreader I began writing in earnest.
Ten years on the Arabian Peninsular gave me an insight into the people and culture of the region as well as the activities of illegal moonshiners which inspired me to write and publish three crime/thrillers. Siddiqui, Kawthar and Jumana. I then revisited the 1960s and my dissipated youth in cafes and pubs to write a thriller about the motorcyclists who lived for speed entitled DURESS. The Life and Death of a Ton-Up.
I recently completed The King’s Charter, the last in a series of crime/thrillers about a private detective suffering from narcolepsy, a real handicap when confronted by criminals and terrorists. The first is entitled Ingrid’s Children which is followed by The Distant Cousin. These novels are still in manuscript form and are seeking a publisher as adventurous as the main protagonist; one bold enough to traditionally publish an unknown author. Apart from averaging one novel a year my other interests include reading and travel.
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She was only eight years old. Her black hair, grey with dust, hung down her back like an old mare’s mane. The once white communion dress now matched the sickly pallor of her skin and young eyes that normally sparkled at fiesta time had been dulled by her father’s death and the ensuing impoverishment.
The constant rumbling of military traffic overhead made the towpath tremble beneath his sleeping body. His restless turning rustled and tore the old newspapers under the travel-stained overcoat. He had removed this from his friend who had perished during the night. A corpse no longer had need for a quilted silk lining.
The stifling heat struck him in the face as he entered The Pantry. The familiar babble of voices and dense cigarette smoke welcomed him, as it did every night after his long day shift at the brewery. The large group of young men, zipped into body hugging racing leathers, weaved excited hands through the air as they described high-speed manoeuvres whilst sipping from large, chipped mugs, filled with frothy coffee.
The kookaburras had already begun their mocking dawn chorus and the bities were gathering above his head as he strode past the dunny and down the backyard with shorts flapping about his knees. The khaki was work-stained and he carried a shovel that was half its original length, the cheap metal having been worn down by relentless use.
The headphones were borrowed and far too small. The sides of his head were uncomfortably hot and a tingling sensation was beginning to affect his ears. Despite this discomfort he continued to listen intently while swinging the end of the long rod over the rich, newly seeded earth.
It was Tuesday afternoon and the last Lady of Shallot had been deadheaded and inspected for greenfly. Colonel Arnold Blotson, retired, was now ready for the four judges of the Best Garden of Tickles Green.
It all began and ended with a paper cup flying through the air. It was the only thing that left the ground that morning for the aircraft had come to a shuddering halt on the taxiway to the main runway for reasons unbeknown to the passengers
As he entered the village hall the cloying atmosphere of Chanel, Lancôme, Dior and Poundsavers finest perfumes drowned the light fragrance of his aftershave. Table number four had been allocated to him at the door but on gazing at the curious faces that had all turned to look him over he knew that the first table he wanted most was seven.
The litterbin stood beside the park bench on which three elderly men were sitting. They sat bolt upright looking at their surroundings but seeing little while idle thoughts drifted aimlessly through their minds.
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