About 12 years ago, when I first started on ABC, I was writing a comic blog about a failed writer living in a damp flat in a wind-swept seaside town on the Kent coast. With his neighbours, Sherlock and Yo, he whiled away his days - writing stories, taking low-paid jobs, drinking, smoking, dreaming... He went through a few incarnations as I tried to develop the thing into a novel - but it didn't work out. Alan Benefit, then Stan Seagrave... then finally Harry Chadwick. I dug out this old 'chapter' and thought I'd post it. It might resonate with some of you...