Paperback 6" x 9" 200 pp   ISBN 978-1-326-04379-7

I've written this book in exactly the same way that I frantically scribbled down car numbers fifty years ago in the London rush hour - typing whatever came out of my finger tips, reading what I had written, checking to see how few pages of my life I had left, knowing there was nothing I could do to change the pages I had used or reclaim the pages I had wasted... then I used up more precious pages.

As I read about our lives, tears, spurts of blood even viscera, appeared from old wounds I thought had healed and from fresh wounds as deep and as painful as any of the old onesÖlikeÖI donít know. I was going to say like going to a psychiatrist but I wouldn't know. Iíve never done that... like... like going to confession!

I used to be a Catholic, I know how confession is supposed to work.

Retelling my life through this book has been like going to confession. It has forced me to face up to what really happened.   See the warts, feel the jealousies, hurt the hurts, hate the hates, lose the losses, leaving me searching for the penance.

Trouble is, there is no penance that can make good what families do to each other and no penance means no absolution, no absolution means no forgiveness and no forgiveness means hell, and ...regrets.