Back then, prehistorically, we were wary of Bryce when he first appeared on the scene, ready to partner Art Director Glynn well known as someone who liked writers under him and never on top. We had reason to worry, Bryce came from being a journalist on The Mirror, which sounded like big cahonies to us, a grown-up job, a Julie Burchill, someone like that.
Before the week was out he would be squeezing our nuts in his red right hand. But as it came to be, Bryce was thoughtful, kind, and well-mannered, gentle even, just the sort to be ignored in a thrusting agency. As we feared he proved to be highly-talented but we soon conspired to nullify that.
Following on there was a huge gap before Facebook helped me find Bryce anew, and I fancied striking up again my superior pose. Not for Bryce going up the ladder of success by going down on his Art Director, as others have stooped.
Too much class… Bryce. Here he is celebrating with his publishers his debut crime novel, with me and Adam waiting patiently in the book signing queue. Humbled and mute. So there we go, here we are. It was lovely to hug you, and I meant it. We gave up on the queue though, too bloody long. CEO Sue Little back to Prestbury , commendably, put substantial cash into her company greenhouses, back in the nineties. The refurb took in green oak frames, master brick men, triple-glazed glass, aluminium: she got in trouble from stakeholders for spending so much money, a fortune, but stuck to her guns.
There were peaches, plums, oranges, tomatoes, and they used to come round with them, distributing fruit amongst the workers. A cussy slice luv. I enjoy young people with blooming cheeks who have an irrational optimism. Everything is pretty bad. Probably the difference between then and now and his more confident sobriety is helping others. A dreadful situation, which can only get worse. Take it, run with it.
