I think I have finished my autobiography, or as my brother Tom describes it, ‘deconstructed autobiographical vignettes’ which I do like. The chapters are vignettes, and whilst That Last of May is chronological across the time covered, the narrative is not linear and instead recursive. The text should be finsihed as I never intended it to cover a whole life, and as ‘vignettes’ they should be brief and episodic – not framed as a complete and whole thing.
But it’s hard not to keep writing. And it’s hard not to write further and want to include. Here’s one I’m not sure about adding, but wanted to write. I have included quite a bit already, and this is another about the father I never knew and am still discovering, to a degree. He was clearly a Romeo, and it is clear I am not impressed.