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It took me a long time to find an agent for my first book. I was eventually touting it around by writing in alphabetical order to each agent in The Writers’ and Artists’ Year Book. I got to the stage where I was looking for other ways of getting my hilarious work into the public domain so I could embark on a life of fame and luxury.

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There’s a car parked outside my house, almost blocking the spot where I leave my old jalopy during the day. It has been there for two weeks. And apparently – I have checked the statutes – I am not allowed to reduce it to a pile of twisted metal and blistered paint. Where, I ask you, is the justice?

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Yesterday I took advantage of the sunshine to spend some time in my garden. Newspaper on my knee, Sam the daft cat lying on his back next to me with is feet in the air, silently challenging me to a game of dodge-claw, just breathing in its peace and quiet. It made for a very nice contrast with the seismic upheavals shortly to afflict or rescue the country depending on how you view it.

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It’s that time of the year again; the first day of the Wimbledon fortnight, and the first thing I do at this time of the morning – it’s 6:23 as it happens – is to thank the sequence of unlikely events since the Big Bang which have resulted in me being able to sit on my bum on a Monday afternoon and watch it.

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Tribalism is a funny thing, and will no doubt crop up again in various posts, and while its links to football are as obvious as the nose on your face – no offence intended if your hooter is, shall we say, not to be sneezed at – I hadn’t considered how I might use it to my personal advantage.

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