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Books By Ian Ogilvy - Author

Ian is best known as an actor - in particular for his takeover of the role of The Saint from Roger Moore. He has appeared in countless television productions, both here and in the United States, has made a number of films and often starred on the West End stage.

Ian was born in Woking, Surrey, in 1943. His father was an advertising executive, his mother an ex-actress. His father had been an actor once as well, but had given it up when he discovered that he hated actors and poverty equally—and therefore didn’t care to experience either of them any more. Ian went to school in Sunningdale and then later to Eton. At 17, he got a job as a stagehand at the Royal Court Theatre in London. According to Ian, he was the worst stagehand they ever had. After about 6 months of this, the Royal Court Theatre was very relieved when he got a place at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art. The course there lasted 2 years, after which Ian started his career as an actor.

Ian has two grown up children from a previous marriage – Emma and Titus - and two grandchildren (so far) called Barnaby and Matilda. Ian now lives in Southern California with his wife Kitty and two stepsons, Sam and Lee. They also have three dogs and a cat. When he isn’t writing or acting he manages to fill his time by building things out of wood, gardening, playing games on his computer, riding his big black motorbike and scuba diving. A long time ago, he learnt to fly and has even parachuted out of a plane!

First writing attempts
Ian wrote and illustrated his first book when he was about six and it was called Cheepy The Chick. It was very short and about a chicken. It was very scary and involved a villainous fox. It was never published but Ian still has it today. He began to write seriously at the suggestion of his Literary Agent.

Ian on his writing
‘My ideas come from out of my head mainly. But the setting for Measle And The Wrathmonk comes from a remarkable model train set I once saw, which was full of strange little details—like a Victorian nanny pushing a pram up a mountain path, towards a waiting tiger hiding round a bend in the track. I think I write because I think I can—and if you think you can do something, then I think you ought to do it.’