Feed on clever things and fiction.
You see, fellow reader, I too was a diary writer. And what images that conjures up! The lone man, tweed, tobacco-stained fingertips, driving rain outside, crackling fire inside, using his pen to funnel his unrequited love from heart, to crisp white page...
That was my only ghost or, at least, my only ghost story. Like all narrators of stories like this, I’ll start by saying that I don’t believe in ghosts...
This was London, you tell them. You grow up in pubs, taking pennies to scratch cards and staying stuck-fast sure that you’ll beat your uncle in a game one day...
It wasn’t an immediate bond, oh I’ll be the first to admit it! When Lavinia brought me round for the first time, you and I didn’t gel. She had told me all about you of course, but somehow I still wasn’t ready...
So what product, opportunity and future self is being sold to the viewer by the image above of a flat in London’s exclusive Nine Elms development? And is this future really something to be envious of?