Greetings from the exicentre.

Well.

It appears that 2020 is conforming to the imaginative prognostications of young-adult fiction, as well as more traditional scriptural doomsdaiety.

This eschatology hogwash don't ruffle my feathers. I've lived by the skin of my wits longer than any so-called "specialist" would hold healthy. And sill I sting.

Our fragile frames have forever clung to the crag of the pre-apocalypse. Only now does our footing appear vividly unsure. Support will not materialise from on high, from God, god or government. No helicopters ex nihilo. We are to be each other's pitons. Incidentally, pitons aren't cheap.

And so, if I am to hold your hand (PURELY FIGURATIVELY), please allow me to re-introduce myself:

My age remains irrelevant. I live in Bracknell. I am t ...