Invention breeds necessity. And I’m fairly sure, no, certain – there exists no suitable need for this incantation of malnourished prose. This gibberish. Yet here resides The Pantomime Horse: an invention of sorts, unemployed but willing to work. Read it with tea and custard creams. Please forgive its lumbering stride, this is no centaur – mind and body are absent friends here, and the chap at the back has a limp.

But as The Pantomime Horse begins to find its feet, as notebooks old and new are exorcised of their ghosts; articles written and more roles of film exposed, I hope these pages will attain something like consistency, become something more tangible – whole. For now, consider them the odd groans and puffs of smoke that happen when you put metal cutlery in the toaster. Thanks for visiting.
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