There are days when I wish I could write; not just a daily diary but a novel of epic proportions. Plots and characters seethe beneath the surface of my apathy and I feel the stirrings of literary passion. I have always been an avid reader since I can remember. I was brought up on a strange mix of science fiction, westerns and classical literature. My preferred genre now is crime fiction, which I devour voraciously. I read in the bath, on the loo, in bed and at the quacks. The only time I am not smoking is when I am reading, for I am too engrossed in my book, to bother lighting up. Despite my occasional desire to throw my hat into the ring and set about writing my own jewel in the crown of literary masterpieces, I have come to the conclusion that, apart from my own inadequacies, I am indeed far too lazy to even begin the first sentence. I shall, therefore, resign myself to the wonderful pleasure of reading the superior outpourings of those who have the talent, stamina and intelligence to create a world of magic for me.