Merely seven months in my new-found utopia called Valcuvia, nature is already dulling off the ends of nerves severed by decades of citydom. I’m wrapped tight in it, like chestnuts and ricotta inside a fresh raviolo.       In this place there are more wild boar, lime-green lizards and sci-fi fungi than people. More grunts than past participles. More tusks than manicured smiles. And just as joyously on the human front, more people than adfolk. Here coppersmiths, stained-glass artists, award-winning goats-cheese makers, foresters, pianists, saxophonists, confectioners, stonemasons, even organ pipe makers, outnumber international hyper-global digital content directors by a trillion to one.…

I am a wanderer. Yes, I slump into the same red chair each morning at 8, my head a day ahead and my liver twitching from last night. But every twelve years or so, those bits feel a need. A manic itch.  Even if everything at home fulfils me physically, mentally and all else-ally.    Paris is a love, and I think it loved me. But the city of love it may be, Paris takes its time to love anyone outside its progeny, especially when they’re two metres long, actually say yes, drink New York martinis, work beyond 7 and…

Dear everybody, thank you. For the good feelings, even though the world’s felt ill. For  interviews, the articles, the comments, the Andrew Jolliffe this and Andrew Jolliffe that, the you-couldn’t-invent Andrew Jolliffe. Andrew Jolliffe is blushing. For welcoming me into your agencies, home offices, dessert islands, broom cupboards, wherever, even in a dressing gown, jumper and underpants, odd socks or worse. Or less. For turning a blind eye to the coffee stain on the collar, the smeary glasses and the chest hair. And for giving me presents when I get inside. A brief. A bravo. A constructive comment or sixty-five.…

This might make your bowels gurgle, but I’ll say it.   Imagine eating the same one dish for breakfast, eleven o’clock snack, lunch, tea and dinner your whole working life.   Something a hyper-ordinary. No spice, pepper or joy. Meat and potato pie without the meat or the pie. Roasted toast. A pastel hue of pasta sauce. Celery with celery-salted celery chips and celery salad on the side. You’ll know a few more. You might have had them at school or borstal.   Think what it’d do for the digestion. The first few weeks might be fine. Then you’d be…

  I love it when people ask me about Andrew Jolliffe the man, rather than just the writer. In an industry that often regards humans as digits, it’s a breath of reassuring air.  So I was very lucky to be featured in fellow freelance copywriter Nigel Graber’s Copywriter Stories blog this week. We talked organs, fireworks, life, freelancing and the value of doing. Thanks again. Here’s the link to the blog.  Have a splendid weekend, everyone.

Like the beautiful flower that it is, Paris is opening up.   Restaurant tables are being wiped off. A thousand barmen are blasting dust from billions of glasses. Folk are smiling again. Parisians are shouting “Mais Non!” again (mind you, Parisian cynicism survives anything). Mates and muses are shuffling back into town, some rejoicing, some wondering why.   Personally, I’m a rejoicer. Three months on my own have been a trial. Yes, I’ve had work. Yes, I do Zoom. Yes, I got called and called. But even the best-crafted words will never replace touches on shoulders, handshakes, hugs and glances.…

Some little things lockdown has helped me realise. Maybe natural catastrophes happen to help us appreciate what we all have in common. Even when viruses, markets and consumer confidence all say no, clients still say yes. Thank you, I love you. When economies slow down, bank transfer systems don’t. Cheers, all of you, even more. When shares plummet, the value of thanks goes the other way. Boredom is probably a bigger killer than a virus, but easier to prevent. And even viruses can’t stop leaves unfurling, shopkeepers smiling or trees bursting into pink and yellow. Old ads are still great…

Thank you, thank you, Chas Bayfield, Mark Fairbanks and others. You turned my lonely lockdown into a joy.   You kindly posted some of the most memorable and effective ads of past times. The Guardian. PlayStation. Blackcurrant Tango. UPS. Hamlet. John West. BT. 27 years ago, they inspired me to get into this filthy game. Now, seeing them again reminds me it was all worthwhile.   They also reminded me of another David Ogilvy quote. Sorry to mention him so often. It’s just that he was so often right.   It’s this. When people aren’t having any fun, they seldom…

When this is all over, if it really ever is, a new species will emerge from the darkness and inhabit the earth.   What it does and looks like will depend on where it lives, but here are a few guesses. Hair right down to the knees, maybe. Guts down to the feet. Glass-smooth hands. An accumulated allergy to sourdough. Right-angled leg joints. A corkscrew-shaped right index finger. Technicolor livers. Rectangular eyes with a big red “N”- shaped iris.   There will be a rainbow plethora of regional and national variations, but one common trait. More space in our cerebral…

I’m self-isolating here all on my own. It could be a lot worse.   I’m in Paris. And can leave twice a day for bread, eggs, silence, architecture and a chat with a statue. Believe me, Paris is even more beautiful without Parisians.   And I have things to keep me going. I still have work. Then there’s a good cello, a decent library and the laundry. Bit by bit, they all help keep me off the gin and out of hospital.   The odd social post helps, too. Each day George Tannenbaum reminds me in a different way that…