Okay, so here I am – 68 years old, somewhat rickety, somewhat tired, but still wanting to do…something. So what can I do at this age? Well, lots of things I suppose. I don’t think I can climb Everest or solve the climate change conundrum, or become a saintly philanthropist at this point. I no longer have the desire to impress anyone with amazing feats of derring-do. About the only thing I can do is write little stories. Stories about what you say? Well, sometimes humourous tales, sometimes sad tales, sometimes tales of great woe. But mostly I want to mine the ore of my memory for things worth telling. Perhaps in the six plus decades that I have trod upon this wretched planet, I might have a thing or too to share.
Oh and perhaps now and then I can write about good books I have read or am reading. Or for that matter, bad books I have read or am reading. I have great respect for writers in general. I know from personal experience how much work goes into the production of a first novel, say, or a play or an epic poem. It doesn’t matter whether that novel or play or poem is absolutely horrible – it is still the child of the author and as such needs my respect. At least I think so. Therefore, books will generally be reviewed with favour I think. If I don’t like a book, I am unlikely to review it. Like my mother used to say: “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all!” My mother had a lot of wise things to say. I only wish I had listened to half of them before it was too late!