Oscar Sparrow was born in 1949 as the sonic boom of jets and babies began to draw a new world map of umbilical vapour trails. On the edge of Winchester UK lay meadows where he found a beauty not reflected in human affairs. Educated in a church school he learned the National Anthem and about a dyslexic Cat called Chism. On the day of the eleven plus he found out there was an alphabet. Destined to be a writer he wrote poems and stories with lumps of chalk on pavements. In those days editors carried buckets of water.
Oscar became a mechanic, labourer, truck driver and boxer. He discovered girls and set up his own small breeding programme when the boxing gloves ended his sex life. Always scribbling he sent waves of short stories to magazines and published poems via the National Poetry Foundation magazines. The quest for the quiet voice became lost in the throb of debt and diesel engines. He read the works of Wordsworth and Ford Cortina manuals in the cab of a parked lorry close to the Universities of both Oxford and Cambridge. He has no honorary doctorates but has met several honourable doctors at the clinic.
Life changed dramatically when he heard Edith Piaf singing on the radio. With old LP vinyl records and a dictionary he learned to sing many of her songs. One day he realised she was foreign and that he had learned to speak French. Mistaking a recording of “La Bohème” as a French song he bought a Puccini opera LP and learned the words in Italian. When he subscribed to a weekly art history magazine and saw pictures of naked women he decided it was time to become more artistic and move to London. The only available work with housing was the Metropolitan Police. It would have to do.
Soon Oscar was in car chases and riots. In between he hung around the famous art galleries and did all the lecture tours of the paintings. He became a member of the Institute for Contemporary Arts and The Poetry Society. He read Tolstoy in French and became a pretentious pain in the ass. Eventually the bosses gave him job in the art department of Interpol London at Scotland Yard. The dream of the quiet voice and writing slipped ever further away as the rejection slips piled up for novels, short stories and poems. Some agents appeared to have rejected the envelopes.
When the posting with Interpol ended, he set out on the roads of Europe as a gipsy trucker. His love of fried battered fish and Yorkshire Gold tea eventually drew him back to Britain where he became a sewage tanker driver and set up a taxi business.