Most mornings each week, a middle-aged man slight of height and academic mien walks into his study in the pair of early 20th century cottages he and his wife have knocked into one in a village a few miles outside St Andrews. It is a big, welcoming room and the thick walls are lined with books, many dating back two centuries. Outside the window, deer roam while pheasants and foxes dart into the adjoining woodland. The scene is bucolic.
Before settling himself at his desk, this man takes the chocolate brown cardigan that once belonged to his father from the back of his chair and puts it round his shoulders. With the first of a day’s two or three mugs of decaffeinated coffee to hand, he confronts his computer and its 27-inch screen and starts writing. He continues until 2.30 when he has to leave to collect his two children from school.
Meet Roger McStravick, a man who is in heaven on earth, doing what interests him most from his own home in his own time. Writing may be a penance for some but it is a pleasure for McStravick, 49, the...
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