I’m a writer, that’s professional as in getting paid. Mostly. I quite like the expression ‘hack’ except when it comes to the novel I’ve just finished. This is, of course, a work of  art. It’s also the first one ever submitted since my career has been resolutely non-fiction. I’m a city-boy consigned, unjustly, to the country and desperate to return to civilization. Of late I’ve sensed the country feels much the same. Oh, currently single but as always hopeful. No, not desperate, hopeful. Is there any other way to live?


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