'To call a story a true story is an insult to both art and truth.' – Vladimir Nabokov
bulk :: 12st 5
age :: 42 (as of yesterday)
elbows :: 2
elbows in head :: 0
regrets :: a few
pretentious quotes :: 1
marital status :: single
children :: 0
% of physical truth in Bête de Jour :: approx. 75%
% of emotional truth in Bête de Jour :: 100%
occupation before Bête de Jour :: TEFL teacher
occupation after Bête de Jour :: up in the air
As the many ham-fisted, wrong-footed or otherwise abortive attempts I’ve made over the last couple of years testify, this is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to write. (So hard in fact, that in the end, rather than just blurt it out, I disguised the reveal in last week's hitching trip.) Just in case there's still any doubt, however, or just in case you're more confused now than you were a week or so ago, let me just clarify:
I’m not the ugly brute I’ve been claiming to be for the past couple of years. There. I've said it.
I know a few of you had your doubts, some of them verging on the vociferous. Well, congratulations. Your cynicism was not unfounded – at least not entirely.
Right. So. Where to start?
First, I think, with an apology...