I was talking to Daughter the other day.
Nothing remarkable in that, you say, but it is unusual. I have been seeing a lot of her lately for various reasons and I have seen more of her in the last month than I usually do in a year or two. After all, she does live a long way from me – at least 500 yards.
“Why don’t you write a book?” says she.
I pondered this for a moment as generally a question like this has an ulterior motive. Was she going to offer to ghost write it for a massive fee? There had to be a catch.
“I wrote one” says I, “and it didn’t exactly set the world on fire. I still get letters from the publishers telling me how royalties are non-existent and that they still haven’t covered their costs.” Mind you, that was their problem for not advertising the damned thing but that’s beside the point.
“Write another” says she cheerfully.
“That makes sense. Write a book that bombs, so write another. Anyway what would I write about?” says I.
She thought about this for a moment.
“Write an autobiography!” says she.
“Now why the fuck would anyone want to read my biography? I’m an ordinary bloke. I’m not one of your footballers or ‘celebrities’. The Peasants have never heard of me so they are very unlikely to be interested, and even less likely to want to shell out cash to hear my story. And anyway, it was hard enough doing the first one without starting another.”
“I know someone who would read it” says she.
“Your Grandchildren and Great-Grandchildren. Let them know what life was like before civilisation in the form of the Interweb came along.”
Fuck! I hadn’t thought of that.
So now I am contemplating the task. Already I am beginning to remember things about my past that I had hoped had been forgotten forever.
Damn that girl!