Like so many men of his time and of his kind, Raymond faces a choice between conformity, courage and compartmentalisation. The decision he makes will ricochet destructively through lives and decades until―in another time, another city; in Paris, 2003―Raymond’s son Joe finally meets Joey. And the healing begins. Sam Kenyon’s debut novel is a lyrical triptych of tragic passion, stifled identity and making peace with the past.

Miss Littlewoodis taking to the seas as part of a nw partnership between the Royal Shakespeare Company and Cunard. An abridged version will be playing to live audiences on the New York-Southampton route as of May 2022. Read all about it here. Wow. You really are out of another country, Wallace. Another era, even. Tell me what you know about quinces.’

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Sometime later he hears an odd slapping sound and opens his eyes to find the man standing, leaning against the upper bunk, his head out of view, his naked body immediately before Raymond. The man’s penis is fully erect and he is masturbating. Raymond’s cheeks are ruddy with arousal. And humiliation. He crosses Gold Street, then finds himself on Hudson Avenue. When a man appears abruptly from the shadows Raymond holds his breath, feeling suddenly vulnerable, but the man just smiles at him as though in recognition before crossing the road and disappearing once more. As Raymond exhales, he feels somehow spurred on by this encounter and he walks the length of the avenue, eyes hunting doorways for clues. He feels instinctively that he is getting closer and closer to what he is seeking. It's sixty years to the day that Raymond Wallace wandered into Little Navy and changed the course of his life, irrevocably. You can hear an exclusive extract of the moment when Raymond first sees Joey, here. Buy your copy of I AM NOT RAYMOND WALLACE - eBook, audiobook, hard copy - here.

Very good, Mr Wallace,’ says Joshua, printing Raymond’s name on the receipt. ‘With tax, that comes to twenty-six dollars and seventy-five cents.’ Raymond hands him three of Doty’s bills, and Joshua counts out the change. When he gets to the dollars, he looks Raymond straight in the eye. ‘Until they print us a three-dollar bill,’ he says, smiling expectantly as though sharing a joke, ‘we’ll have to make do with individual ones.’ Beneath the counter Raymond’s right thumb finds a hangnail on his left hand. ‘There was a chap at my college who was rusticated—sorry; expelled—for it,’ he says. ‘I had only ever thought of him as rather—I suppose the word is flamboyant—but then it transpired that there was rather more going on than that. A scandal. But I wasn’t in his circle, so I wasn’t privy to the gory details. Just that he—name of Stephen Bennett—disappeared to France. Paris, I think.’

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I will say straight away that I have known this author since he was six years old. This in no way makes me more likely to give the book a glowing review because when we used to sit together in school orchestra, he was quite annoying.

I am delighted to announce that I will be composing the score for the Royal Shakespeare Company 's forthcoming production of A Midsummer Night's Dream . Director: Erica Whyman; Designer: Tom Piper; Lighting Designer: Charles Balfour. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, The masterstroke of the writer and composer Sam Kenyon is to tell this great theatrical figure’s story in the muscularly informal and informative manner of such Littlewood shows as Oh! What a Lovely War. A magnificent evening.’ Raymond feels overwhelmed by the number of options. He turns the menu over as though the answer he seeks might lie on the reverse side. It is blank. ‘I don’t mind.’I’m very pleased to meet you,’ he says. ‘Everyone tells me you’re the only person I need to know, here.’ Forty years later, in Paris, Raymond’s son -Joe- meets Joey and here the book lifts us up into a different space, one with a believable narrative twist which offers redemption and the way that people who feel unable to live in full honesty of their secret selves can smuggle the vital knowledge gained from a life of secrets, lies & repression out, via their work, writing and unconditional love, to a younger generation unbound by chains of shame. Pain is a great fuel to burn through decades of sadness, a scorched earth of ashes is a fertile space for new growth. Even now, even having made it thus far, Raymond hesitates to make the first move in case he’s misunderstood the situation. He walks over to the window and breathes onto the glass. It is somehow important to him that his breath still condenses; that this night obeys the laws of physics. His breath clouds the pane. He wipes the condensation with the sleeve of his jumper and looks out at the streetlights. He sees in them so many days of longing, of wondering: beacons of anticipation. In the morning they’ll go out, as if realising the significance of this night. And tomorrow night he’ll watch for them again. But tonight, he can’t imagine how they’ll look then, or with what eyes he might see them tomorrow. After tonight, Raymond cannot conceive of how he will read anything, ever again. I am delighted to announce that I will be arranging and composing the music for Sheffield Crucible's forthcoming production of Arthur Miller's play, Playing for Time, directed by Richard Beecham. This is an extraordinary play about the women's orchestra in Auschwitz, based on the memoir of the same title by Fania Fénelon. Fuddy-duddy: that’s a great expression. Not at all. You look...like a gentleman. May I have your name?’