He had been one half of a ‘creative team’ at an advertising agency. Their vacuous thoughts were turned into award-winning commercials by gifted directors who took the money and ran towards more satisfying, Oscar-winning projects.

In the meantime, he took credit for their work and celebrated accordingly, telling anyone who would listen about the novel he would write when he had the time. His wife, Claire, meanwhile, was building a career as a successful artist. When he lost his job at the agency, they left London and bought a place in the country. There he found the writing process interfered with his drinking and spent more time in the pub than at is desk. Life became darker. A thickening mist began to obscure his consciousness. His local, ‘The Grim Reaper’ began to live up to its name….

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