About the Author
At the end of the sixties was to be found on the Isle of Lewis in theOuter Hebrides of Scotland. Still a brat. There finally learned to readand write under the strict disciplinarian regime of the NicolsonInstitute and one Miss Crichton. Then spent a year living in Banham Zooin Norfolk, swapping childhood imaginary friends for howler monkeys,penguins.
Followed, for want of something better to do and forwant of a brain, in Daddy's footsteps and found himself working for theBritish Civil Service in areas much too foul to be named. Was eventually asked to leave by the Home Secretary. A few years of corporate lifeearned some more kind invitations to leave. Ran a few businesses,several limited companies, then went down the plug-hole with the globaleconomy and found himself in court, bankrupt with home, car andvaluables auctioned off by H.M. Official Receivers. Now lives bycandlelight in a hedgerow in rural Lincolnshire as a peacenik veganhippie drop-out, darning old socks and living on fresh air and a senseof the ridiculous.
Dog person not a cat person. Favourite colours include faded tangerine and cobalt blue. Fatally allergic to Penicillin and very nearly so to Jerusalem Artichokes. Loves coffee and lovescurry. Has tried his hardest all of his life to ride bicycles but simply looks like a deranged, overweight orang-utan on wheels. Favourite filmBlade Runner. Uses the word "splendid" far too much.