That’s my London-born mother holding me, a wee Scottish baby - even if, now, my voice wouldn’t suggest it. I saw this photo for the first time three days ago and I haven’t stopped looking back at it. It means a lot, for some reason.
I’ve asked myself what this is going to be as I’ve pondered setting it up - what am I gonna call it, is it gonna be consistent, who the fuck do I think I am?
I don’t know, is the truth. But it’s something I’ve wanted to do. I always write. I always think about things I want to write. Why not broadcast them?
I write about films. I write anthropology. I write about heartbreak. I don’t know what it means, but it does mean something.
I guess we’ll find out.