Words.


I’ve always been a writer. But sometimes it takes a while for the obvious to become … well, obvious. In my case, fifty-four years (ie my entire time so far on the planet). In the meantime, I’ve done many jobs, been many things; worn many hats, jumped through many hoops. Yet none of these ever seemed to quite properly fit. And always I kept coming back to it, the need to write … numerous part-started, never completed pieces of work, all stashed away, waiting for the mythical ‘one day’ … while I concentrated instead on that most vital of identity markers: the *real* job (no matter how miserable all those ‘real’ jobs made me feel). And then I became upwell. And I injured my hand. And life shifted tempo … and the obvious presented itself as the only feasible option. To write. So here it is. Now or never …