I was just six years old when I discovered my fondness for evisceration. I was sitting in the garden of a gamekeeper’s lodge on the grounds of Blackstone Manor my father rented for the summer: an old cottage with overgrown ivy covering much of its fascia. A floral arch rose over the front door porch, which itself was a paean to a glory long lost to antiquity: large, solid heavy wood, probably oak, with brass furniture, and gloss black paint.
Martyn Winters: Author, Composer, Musician
