I spend my days squinting at poorly written manuscript (more often than not), and my evenings kicking a ball or in a saddle (bike saddle that is, not the horsey type) or listening to a record or reading a much better written book or watching a film or going to a gig (I like music, music has been a big part of my life, and I have a lot of music ... something like 1500 albums and about as many cds---my flat, which is fairly large and comfortable, seems about half it's actual size, what with all the books and records piled here, there and everywhere) or ...
I have a kick-ass deck, west-facing and over-looking a park surrounded by trees: it's my urban bower. In the summer, it's filled with vegetables (mostly tomatoes) and herbs and flowers; in the winter, it's filled with snow (when/if it snows).
The blurb on the dust jacket reads: has a dry sense of humour; has been known to be sarcastic when the mood turns melancholic; tends to be a bit reserved, though can, on a rare occasion, surprise; enjoys a good giggle; not at all photogenic (and I got the pictures to prove it), but working on it; has been called cute; peanut-free for 20 some years and counting; unwed, child-free, foot-loose and fancy-free; doesn't smoke (well, the mind is strong, the flesh is weak, the fingers grasp ... I've been known to bum a fag from a friend, on occasion, but I don't inhale!); enjoys a drink (a pint of plain is yer only man, if you know what I mean).
WARNING: this man comes with cats---nothing against dogs (dogs are alright with me, but I have a problem with some of the humans they keep company with) or ferrets (see dogs but replace "some" with "most") or rabbits or birds or snakes (see ferrets) or what have you, but I've always lived in a home with a cat. It's a comfort thing. At the moment, 2 domestic long-hairs deign to allow me to feed them and clean up their cack (and, of course, since they're long hairs, there's no shortage of cack). Inevitably, I frequently and unwittingly carry fur with me on my daily jaunts.