THERE'S been a bit of broadsheet snidery about. Little digs about how publishers' PRs seem to have Radio 4 outlets pretty sewn up with readings from new publications flowing from the station - but there's nothing much to sneer it. On balance, the zig-zag between what I hear and what I read is erratic and quite fruitful.

I first heard Rabbi Lionel Blue on the airwaves, warmed to his endearing idiosyncratic style, his inclusiveness, and his relish for life and latkes. His coziness is held in by a amiable wryness and his clarity comes from a breadth of messy, charged experience, steering him far from the naff pronouncements of your average God-slotters. (How can that lot continue after Fulton's Reverend Jolly and Father Billy Connolly's pronouncement that ''life

is like an ashtray - full of

little douts''?)

This week I've been listening to My Affair With Christianity (R4) - a brave title indeed for a rabbi. His serious, honest exploration of the pull - highly problematic on all levels - of an opposing creed took him from quiet Quaker rooms to Catholic mass and High Anglican smells and bells. This turned out to be a pretty rigorous church-crawl, and yes, his mother threatened to top herself when she heard the news, poor lady - she was going through the change of life while Lionel was edging towards conversion. He never made it to baptism; the Holocaust kept him from

the font and finally his

sense of betrayal pressed

too compellingly.

Importantly, he reminded us of Christianity's shameful complicity; he recalled Pope Pious XII's obscene neutrality, and the grossness of de Valera sending condolences to the German Ambassador on the news of Hitler's death. The anti-Semitism implicit in Christian teachings remains in place, allowed to simmer still.

Yet his story is about spiritual passions, like love affairs which need not be utterly renounced; the ones that leave their trace elements in the heart. There will be those who loftily shun such

a pick-and-mix theology - but one felt his spiritual confidence was strenuously won; a place arrived

at through his

unsentimental humanity.

Our attempts to unravel the mysteries is doomed but Lionel Blue was after something else - he was desperate to be saved from ''being poisoned by the dark'' within himself. In that sense everyone - agnostic and believer - is trying to save his soul. And PR victim or not, I'm glad I went out and bought the book.

Another programme inspired me to buy what I've heard. I was listening to Harry Potter on Cover Stories on Radio Scotland. Presented by David Stenhouse, this was a sparky overview of the children's writing scene in Scotland; with fewer children's publishers around it was good to hear of the enterprising Barrington Stoke press, whose books are specifically aimed at reluctant readers - a reluctance which could stem from deafness, dyslexia, or simple dislike. I liked the vivid stories of the writers' starting points as much as the snippets of poems and prose.

Debbie Gliori's beautifully illustrated stories are a sumptuous delight; even her domestic pictures make familiar details glow - buying her books, especially around Christmas when resolutions have melted into panic and you have paid up for PlayStation games and waded through Disney dross, bring back your own good glow for a while.

When she was starting off she was advised against using colour if she wanted to be in with a chance of publication. After a couple of knockbacks the break happened, though dodgy advice still proliferated. Like the response to one of her city scenes of Glasgow as being too recognisably Scottish, therefore lacking

in universality.

Her sanguine manner makes her an excellent model for would-be artists. She suggests you nod acceptingly at the advice proffered halfway through a project. By the time you are finished, she says, they forget they ever said it.

Joanne Rolling, author of Harry Potter, has to be adaptable to her own environment. She wrote in cafes, her toddler asleep in the buggy, until silence became the distraction and babble the ideal milieu. After hearing Dilys Rose read a sweet, saccharine-free, wee poem about neurotic Small's need for reassurance, I phoned the Scottish Children's Press to get a copy. But I did not buy Ted Hughes's Tales From Ovid (Late Book, Radio 4) this week. His deep sinewy reading was perfect, and the poems were already on my shelf.