But blog posts elude me. The one about my difficulty with eggs seemed suddenly trivial, and the one about cultural references became too complicated. Story of my life, really.
(I’m thinking of writing a second novel, by the way. This one is about the real me, not the imagined one who was the subject of my first novel. It begins:
It was at precisely five minutes past five on a wet and windswept morning in late November that the quiet precincts of the cottage hospital were shattered by a scream so blood-curdling that the milk came out in sympathy. A child was born in a town that wasn’t quite in the North of England, and not quite in the Midlands of England. It was betwixt and between, as alliterative and mildly illogical convention commonly has it, and thus began the confused and confusing life of one Jeremiah Goodwin.)
But don’t hold your breath waiting for the launch.
For now, have another picture of me, this time taken shortly after cessation of the office rugby team’s practice session. If you don’t know which one is me, you haven’t been paying attention.
More to the point, however, pay particular attention to the guy second from the left in the back row (the one who looks like the Limerick Rake.) He was much more interesting than me, being particularly noted for his habit of stubbing his cigarette butts out on the office carpet. Smoking in offices was perfectly normal in those days, as was the provision of ashtrays.