Welcome to my garrett…

Once upon a time, in the West of London, there lived a man who had grown tired of the law. He had spent a decade amongst the dusty tomes of cases, both ancient and modern, wallowing in the finer intracacies of ius cogens, the ius in bello and the ius ad bellum, until he realised that there was something more that he desired.

Tired of war crimes, the man began to pay attention to the stories and voices that bubbled up in his head. Rather than let these images swim around his mind and haunt his dreams, the man took up pen and paper and tried to imprison the shadowy fragments of imagination.

And so the man turned his back on ivory towers, on pretensions to working at The Hague, or New York, or Geneva, set up a small wooden desk in his garret, and with fingers poised over his keyboard declared “I am a writer…”

Surveying him in his garret, hunched over his keyboard, in fingerless gloves, glancing at the sheets of paper strewn across the floor, his wife declared “Please can I start pimping you out to publishers? We need the money.”

Welcome, enjoy looking around, and come back often…