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It was early when I got the call. Way too early. Half asleep I slapped the trilling menace from its cradle and it landed with a crack on the maple of my bedroom floor. I picked it up. “Moocjheenie”, I croaked. “It’s happened again”, an electronic voice, altered, robot-like, “you know the drill”, then a click to dial tone. I blinked the crust from my eyes and focussed on my watch; 3.16 a.m. and 23 seconds. A force of habit. In my line of work the difference between success and failure is so often in the minutiae. It was the third call I’d received this week. All at the same unearthly hour. The fifth since the start of the month. The world’s celebrity chefs were disappearing, one by one. Kidnapped without ransom. I’d have an email waiting for me in my in-box, of that I was sure. Another stanza in a sick sonnet from one twisted puppy.

I'm an avid, but decidedly average guitarist. Growing up I was surrounded by friends who were wonderful guitarists. My high school seemed to produce them like an assembly line. I got plucked from the line by quality control at a very early age. To this day many of my closest friends can still make a bunch of nylon, steel and spruce, sing like a bird. Despite all my efforts at learning, my music still sounds more like the wailing of an ebola victim than bird-song.

Born of the lack of a quality all you could eat restaurant in 1930's, depression-stricken London, the Astray Buffet first flung open it's doors on Fleet Street in 1931 (in the process, injuring a sleeping drunk who'd set up camp in the foyer, according to the Associated Press). With it's prime locale — merely metres from the Royal Courts of Justice and a short stroll from the Headjob and Handbrake — the original Astray Buffet soon gained notoriety for all the wrong reasons. In short, those who could afford to indulge in it's delicacies — namely, the legal professionals and journalists that frequented that quarter of London — would never get the chance.

Me: So I'm thinking of giving this whole blogging thing a bit of a go. What do you think? My Friend: A blog, what the hell for? Haven't you got like ten web-sites sitting out there silently gathering cyber-dust already? Why not re-vamp one of them? Me: Because I want to write what I want to write, when I want to write it.