If I was in a position to have somebody else publish my book, they might say something lovely about me. They might say I was a truly unique writer. The beauty of the word unique is that all manner of other adjectives can hide under its ambiguous pleasantness. “He is unique, there is nobody like him...... thank the fucking heavens.”

I used to run an advertising company and then life gave me temporary release from the enslaving demands of my clients on the promise that I would try and earn a living doing something that I love. Life assures me, that the moment I do not turn up for my writing job, it will come looking for me. It has lots of horrible jobs for me to do. So I write for me, hoping that you, will appreciate it as it is. I am the only writer that I can ever be. For better or worse. In self-loathing or in blind confidence. Until death us do part.

I turned 40 a few weeks back. The invading army of grey hairs on my beard whisper in my head that it is only a number. They say this as their numbers stealthily increase by the day. Death is the only reminder you need to live the life you want.

I have a wife and three kids. I have them and they have me. And we have each other.

“Dear Red, if you’re reading this, you’ve gotten out. And if you’ve come this far, maybe you’re willing to come a little further” – The Shawshank Redemption