My brother and me by Hugh McIlvanney
There was a time during my early years on the staff of The Observer in London when the sports department’s office was next to that of the great literary editor Terence Kilmartin, whose distinctions would later include acclaim as a translator of Proust. Terry and our small crew found being neighbours agreeable and mutually interesting, so it was no surprise when he walked through our door on a May morning in 1966. But he made the moment more unusual by handing me two or three sheets of paper and saying: ‘Don’t you think, given that you’re working here, this might be seen as excessively favourable?’
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