I've never read a blog. I've never subscribed to one. I quite like twitter. And my favourite cheese is... er... So, anyway... this is where it begins - so where to now? Or, as was said in The Machine Gunners, 'Where ya goin' now, Georgie?' (Genius.)
I'm sitting in a house of rubble, living off my redundancy, facing 2010 with the insane and idiotically rose-coloured-spectacled view that I'll make a living from writing. I feel a bit of a numpty. Not least because most people my age have a job. And some sense. I have neither. And I kind of relish in that.
From here to wherever it ends up, it'll be a bit of a laugh finding out I reckon. And frankly, that's a good enough reason for me to give it a go. I've got nothing to lose. Well, nothing so long as I don't include the house, the car, the self-respect... Actually, no. I've got the self-respect. I think. I'm not an accountant. So that's saying something. And I no longer work for Ofsted. Which, to be frank, could be the subject of many blogs to come: Why I Don't Work For Ofsted; Why No One Should Work For Ofsted; Why Ofsted Is Worse Than Shingles...
Ofsted. I mean seriously, who wants to work for an organisation that has, on it's dress code, that lovely material Corduroy BANNED. Seriously! Thou Shalt Not Wear Corduroy! Unsurprisingly, I wore it rather a lot.
2010: A year with no Ofsted, no income, and a daft idea that my insane aim to be a children's writer will pay off. It's a bit of a gamble, isn't it?
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