Books
need titles as much as human beings need names. Since leaving school
in 1962 aged 15, Paul Davies has been a car mechanic, factory worker,
shoe shine boy, milk man, shot-firer in a quarry, bus conductor, guitar
player, artist’s model, performance poet; and being the youngest
son of a gardener, lately he has begun to think of planting seeds himself.
Then one day the title of this collection presented itself to him chalked
on a wall: Life, a wicked little conundrum. ‘H’m’m’m,’ he
thought.
