Writing a book is a journey - and mostly a roller-coaster one. During the long period that I was working on Sand, I learned to be discerning and discreet about who I chose to mention it to. I was often reminded of the story of Peter Cook, the dour and endlessly funny British satirical comedian of some years ago, who, in a pub, was collared by a fawning acquaintance. The man declared to Cook that he was writing a book; “Oh really?,” Cook responded, “Neither am I.” I shall also never forget the occasion that I mentioned to an old friend that I was working on a book. Her face lit up with curiosity and enthusiasm, and she asked what it was. “It’s all about sand” I replied, at which her face instantly drained of any sign of animation, and took on the definition of the glazed look. Her reaction was not dissimilar to that of any number of publishers.
But last week, a couple of American friends were visiting London and suggested that we go to the geological exhibits at The Natural History Museum. I hadn’t been in heaven knows how many years (why is it that, when one has the privilege of living in a great city, taking advantage of what it has to offer mainly occurs when folk come to visit?), and, I have to say, I much enjoyed it. The highlight for me was, without doubt, entering the “Earth’s Treasury” gallery, a spectacular and accessibly informative display of our planet’s resources. At the entrance to the gallery was the sign below - I caused a minor disturbance when I read the last line.
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