I was recently challenged to list 8 suitably random facts about myself, this by someone with an already all too lucid picture of my deathstyle, age 28.
1. I love my new forklift. It's so smooth and yellow.
2. I wish I lived in San Juan in the fifties. I'd have hated communists and loved a blonde girl.
3. My bonsai is a year older than I am. I've defeated it in every debate we've had until now.
4. If my building burnt down - I'd likely suffocate of smoke inhalation or be burnt to a crisp. C'est la vie.
5. Rugby is my drug. Like all addicts everywhere I silently harbour a fixation that is tempered by strict civility.
6. It's very likely I dont even have the one novel in me. (That said the temptation to sell the lot, head for the tropics and open a hack beach bar is greatest during December, when the Cape mistral pounds us relentlessly.)
7. My audience escaped the theatre a while back - since then I've been forced to read dead authors, and wait expectantly till my favourite living ones shot themselves in the face with shotguns in American ski resorts. (Thanks Hunter.)
8. "I have never been disciplined out of virtue but as a reaction to my negligence, I appear generous in order to conceal my meanness, I pass myself off as prudent because I am evil- minded, I am conciliatory in order not to succumb to my repressed rage" and I miss drinking mango juice and rum on white tiled terraces in the heat of a Cuban afternoon.