In any book you always have an introduction to the main protaganist of the story, and in this instance that would be me.
I am a forty-something male, of average height, unremarkable looks, and a physique that is neither too big nor too small; that happy medium that marks me as "unremarkable" and therefore not worthy of a second glance. Somewhat hirsute in the facial region that makes up for a lack of follicles on the top of the head.
I like to think myself a fairly easy-going person, quick to laugh and just as easily to tear up. I don't remember my younger self being quite so ready to go all moisty eyed at the smallest of things, but advancing years seem to make me more prone to the emotional. I do think at some point my Britishness will be revoked as I seem to have lost my stiff upper lip somewhere along the route of life.
An introvert by nature, but enjoying of company and laughing with others. However I do this from the background rather than by pushing myself to the front and being the centre of attention.
I say, steady on old chap
I am, for want of a better term, married and live in the middle of England in a quintessentially middle-class existence consisting of two very teenage children, a pet, two cars, a mortgage and more debt than I can shake a stick at. One of those "very teenage children" has, in a move that has entirely wrong-footed me, seem to have rushed headlong into nearly adult'dom whilst the other is playing catch up very fast.
There does seem to be a fairly distressing disconnect between the age I think I am, inside my head, and the evidence as presented by both my mirror and the age of my children.
Reading this back I can't help but notice that I've started almost every paragraph with "I" which seems a little lazy and is a personal bugbear of mine, however this is an introduction to "I" and the word does form part of the title of this page so I don't feel entirely guilty about it.
There is more, but that's enough for now and leaves some for the upcoming pages...