They're not my memories, but my mother's, so she may have been bragging when she told me I've been writing since I was two. I do remember making my own little fold-it-yourself, back of perforated, green-lined scrap printer paper, crayon-illustrated books. Stories about animals, all the usual stuff you write before you wake up and realise that life ain't all smily, twee things. If I could have seen myself in the future, I wouldn't have understood; I still don't, but does understanding matter? Picture that two year old all big and grown, sat on the broken seat of one of Manchester's less salubrious public conveniences with a 1mil insulin only (orange cap) syringe in the writing hand, jagging it for the xth time into a leg-vein. Yeah, heroin. That's what happened. That's life. It saved my life, but that's another story. Quit the pin&spoon. I never stopped writing. Years pass, life moves. I'll share thoughts, stories (true and untrue), poetry. Feel free to leave a comment. I'll let your comments stay, no matter how vile, so enjoy your rants if you feel the need. Me: I'll just laugh. So welcome. Vee X

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