History at its best is a gritty, dirty business.

In the doorway of Fortnum & Mason a young couple were kissing, oblivious to the world. The neon signs mounted on the buildings cast a glossy veneer over the streetscape, glowing through the smog. Around the statue of Eros there were crowds of youngers. The girls were a mass of bobby pins and ribbons, hardly dressed for the cold weather. The boys wore suits with thin ties. They were bantering on their way from the cinemas and theatres to the bars, dance halls and music clubs further along.
“I fancy you, Kitty Dawson,” a lone boy shouted.

History is full of blank spaces, but good stories, invariably, are not.

I'm accustomed to reading Georgian and Victorian letters and sometimes you simply know in your gut that a blithe sentence is covering up a deeper emotion.

Mrs Beaumont shrugged. ‘Dougie travelled light in life,’ she said. ‘He knew it was people who were important.’ – Operation Goodwood

The smell of tobacco usually reminded Mirabelle of being a child - coming downstairs in the morning when the dinner party her parents had hosted the night before was cleared away, but the scent of cigars still lingered. – Operation Goodwood