Here's mine:
2011: Thirty-four, self employed, teaching literature, writing fiction. Much too much education, but I've three books, a chunk of short stories, a comic, and a few other bits and pieces here. Living by myself. I do have a nice girl, though. She laughs at my jokes to rewrite all medical diagnosis into degrees of fucked.
2001: Twenty-four and unemployed and with a degree. Crashed out in life, single, living with my Mum, rewriting Black Sheep is a medicated haze of anti-depressants. A few short stories published. Completely and utterly without direction. My jokes, however, were still pretty funny.
1991: Fourteen. Has grunge come out yet? I am not yet post-metal flannelet and long hair, but soon, soon. Living with Mum, going to High School, paying no attention to the latter. I was accused of plagiarism after writing a story, because it was simply too good to be mine. My jokes, and I take this simply on memory, must have been fantastic.
1981: Four. I assume the world was at my feet. I assume I made people laugh. I assume I was the most successful I have ever been. Don't say I wasn't.
1971: In my previous life as London born aviator, Charlton Helm, I was fast approaching the end of my life. I lived with a woman whose name I could not remember. I had recently purchased a gun. Don't tell me this didn't happen.
Because I know it didn't.
