My craniotomy, and what you’ll find inside

I’m trying to peer inside my head to see if there’s anything worth telling you about me, assuming you’re on this site out of curiosity and not because of a keying error. But it’s just a quietly throbbing lump of pinkish jelly, like in the films, or under the hood of a BMW. No clue as to what it might be doing in there. I’ll keep an eye on it, let you know.

My CV

I’ve spent a lot of time – too much time – reinventing myself through my CV. So many versions of me now exist, I could audition for a part in The Matrix.

So, before I splinter into yet another brilliant, useful personality, let me just explain that I am the depressed man who writes the stuff you can find here on my blog, themindbogls;

that I also edit other people’s writings — or did, until the editor’s craft of erudition and perspicuity became mere barter in the squalid exchanges of a provincial Roman slave auction or a Hardyesque bride fair;

that in the past 42 years I have been  journalist and broadcaster, copywriter and gardener, cook, housekeeper and caretaker in private service, actor, singer, father, lover, Londoner, countryman, drunk and sober; a slaughterer of pigs, hens and delusions of grandeur, I have edited 150 serious works of nonfiction;

that I like both dogs and cats; own seven guitars; have no Facebook friends (oh no, there’s poor Nicholas Ashley, he’s just emailed everyone to say he’s dyed his hair black. ?:) lolz; buy jazz recordings on Amazon; do not smoke; am not drinking any more wine for a while; am thinking instead of purchasing a new car, or a campervan, or a yacht, or a garden studio, or a house in France;

and that I am at present sitting seductively naked in the bay window of my tiny cottage in the orange-light zone of a popular Welsh seaside resort, wattled legs akimbo, absently rolling flakes of skin from beneath my sweaty, pendulous moobs, waiting resignedly to turn another trick.

I hope I please you.