Condensed

Sweethearts, stand by to be blown away.

I have never had any ambition to publish a book. Why should I waste half my life for my readers to get to the end of my endeavours in, say, five hours flat? Which is why, and as an aside, Proust had it sussed. He stayed in bed, let his mother wait on him hand and foot. And to this day no one but no one I know (apart from myself) has ever made it to the end of his manifesto “In search of lost time”.

I am in search of lost time. In the woods. I may be a dreamer but I am not stupid. Those breadcrumbs to show me the way back out of the woods have now been blended into the Gazpacho Andaluz I am eating this minute.

Most of those of you who know me know that I HATE self help books. Which is why, no doubt and for my sins, I have just come up with the most amazing idea for the self help book of all times. It’ll be short. Because one doesn’t need that much help to scramble through the few years allocated to us.

Think consomme.

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