I am a grown man. Yet sometimes I still cry.   Not that I’m jilted or bereaved. Just overwhelmed. By friendship. Success. Relief. A re-found companion. Colour. A delicious chord of minor thirds and flat sevenths. A gesture, scene, present, grin, flash of news. An I Love You. A win.   And relieved, too. That my catalogue of emotions is still there, on the table, open at any page and ready-to-read.   That joy, delight, trust, tenderness, anticipation, expectancy, surprise, disgust, fear, fury, anguish, lust, anxiety, vigilance, panic, passion, disappointment, unbridled cheer, intimacy, aggression, indifference, are there for the…

    Lucky is my middle name. Before Patrick Collister took me on at Ogilvy like a bereaved puppy, I’d already had two careers.   I was an organ builder first, in a workshop full of mouthy cockneys in London’s Bethnal Green. Every word had four letters and the rest was rhyme. Plates of meat were feet, dry gin n’ rum meant petroleum and you’ll guess what grumble and grunt stood for. The 90-year-old old tea-boy had one bloodshot eye, half a tooth and Superman slippers while our shop foreman boasted the East End’s finest porno stash. Evenings were industrial…