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.
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.