What Follows is an extract from Joseph Allison's big bag of crap.

Dear Reader.

I'm feeling a bit depressed at the moment. Its that time of the day. What follows probably shouldn't be taken seriously. What you're witnessing is me at my worst.

I don't think I'm what you'd call a natural writer.

There are some people (on my course at uni in fact) where you look at them you talk to them, you hear about their upbringing and you hear about how much they work and you find yourself thinking "you are supposed to be a writer. Thank god you didn't squander your obvious writeriness somewhere else". You look at me, you talk to me, you hear about my upbringing and you think "you are supposed to be...an accountant" or, on the worst of days "a future psychopath" or in some cases "a smug-faced twat who's going to sponge off his parents until they die, after which you'll go on to die unloved and uncared for" (that would all have to be hyphenated of course). Maybe its the sheltered upbringing, maybe its my disabilities (that are really just short hand for being a slow-witted weirdo, but, rather annoyingly, never in a good way). Dyslexia, dyspraxia and wavering levels on the autistic spectrum don't exactly point to career that involves reading, writing and a deep understanding of how people's minds work. I remember talking to a learning support woman about my choices for a levels and as soon as she heard what I had she said "are you going to be doing maths? Or science. Something like that I bet..."
I was good at maths, and science and I would have gone on to do very well I think. They were easy.
Statistically I should be a statistician.
If you do the math, I should have done maths.


Because I'm not a natural writer I have to try very hard just to be a half decent one.
But I do.
Maybe that's what makes the difference.