The author, writing under the pseudonym Terry Tumbler, was born in the small province of Wales, in not-as-'Great'-as-it-once-was Britain. The adjoining photo of the real author has been air-brushed, so that the possibility of anyone stumbling upon his true identity will not disturb him, also believing that no one who reads his first book can possibly recognise him from the long gone days of his childhood. The first book, The Rough and Tumbles of Early Life, as you may be aware, is an accurate recollection of key events that occurred in his early life. Others of a similar, warped humour and semi-fictional nature have been produced and are being published.
The author left full-time education with a higher level certificate in Business Studies, had a Commercial Apprenticeship in the Titanium Industry, and subsequently gained professional qualifications in Personnel Management and as a Company Secretary. He worked in all aspects of computing for over thirty years, during which time many reports of dubious value and two technical manuals were well-written and printed.
Now retired, and a few months after moving abroad, the author was bemused to find his dear wife sitting alone on her tilting armchair weeping; the reason she gave was shock and horror at the prospect of spending her remaining years with him. Since then, he has done his best to behave himself, but she has still taken out a funeral plan on him. They have three grandchildren, none of whom much like to be with him for more than two weeks.
Those who may wish to inflict retribution for his innocently evil behaviour as a child, may well see through the flimsy disguise, but should know that the author now lives on alien shores and cares not one jot for their intentions.
Why my wife loves(?) me!
For two days, I was really unwell. I started uncontrollably vomiting and feeling feverish during the first morning, and could not even drink a half glass of squash and keep it in my stomach.
On the third day, I managed to eat some scrambled egg and soft bread. Now I suspect that I know the reason: my wife had poisoned me, deliberately. There can be no other rational explanation. We had eaten the same food at all times, and I had not been in close contact with another person nor animal.
I warned her that I knew what she had done, but all she did was smirk. The only good thing that came out of all of this was that closer (unnatural) inspection of the underside of the rims of our toilet basins showed me was how filthy they had become. I got the blame and ended up cleaning them myself.
By the way: the parrot on the wall? I used to point at it whenever she repeated herself.