Burgess, the eponymous hero (?) of this Silly Old Man lives in North London with his extremely long-suffering wife, some of his children and a cat which treats him with an unexplained and barely concealed measure of utter contempt. When not grumbling about politicians, health and safety and the weather he is to be found pretending to work whilst daydreaming about riding a clapped-out motorcycle across Patagonia or on a horse careering across the Mongolian Steppe. Mentally and spiritually he is generally elsewhere from wherever he is, even if he is already there.

His literary credentials are questionable. He claims to have attained top marks for writing at age seven in his first form at school thereby becoming the recipient of the only prize he has ever won; a copy of Enid Blyton’s The Secret Seven’s Dogging Adventures in Dorset. Twenty years later, the disappointing lack of illustrations notwithstanding, Burgess started to read it. Although hard going he persevered and found a love for the written word which has remained throughout his adult life. It should be made clear the written words he loves have been written by others and are certainly not his own.

This volume, however, is all his own work. He has threatened to write another book should this one sell more than three copies other than to friends and family. He already has the crayons.

It will eventually be published.