I begin - by taking tentative steps, and with no idea where the hell I'm going - and gradually, the fog obscuring the road ahead lifts a little. I can see the undulating hills, the ponds and meadows, hear the birds singing, the pot-bellied pigs snuffling in the undergrowth, but that's not all . . . there are maggot-riddled corpses hiding in the weeds by the river, psychopaths lurking behind the gravestones in the abandoned churchyard and . . .
Anyway, let me update you on the wife's sterling efforts to chisel my handsomeness into a chunk of clay. Even as I write, it's sitting on top of a sideboard in a black plastic bag like a severed head waiting to be finished - it needs ears, it needs to look a bit more like Clint Eastwood and the bits of brain that are lying on the wooden base need to be put back!
As you can see from the photographs below - which she keeps sending my by email - she's made significant progress. It looks nothing like me, but hey - a man can't have everything in life!