I know: most of you know my real name. Its best feature is its symmetry; identical initials, eight letters followed by eight letters. Google it and discover a child molester, an arsonist and a retired American football player ahead of me in the standings. I need to be more famous if I'm to gain the approval of the book market.
My first name was chosen to compensate for the dull surname. My brothers came off far, far worse. There's something clunky, almost Meccano-like about Roderick but by now I hardly care. It sounds more sexy pronounced with a French accent and all my French teachers have been women. The abbreviation, Rory, is clearly ridiculous and I've never encouraged it. Mrs RR refers to me as Robin, the majority as Robbie, all Americans as Rod. Roddie is discouraged since it implies short pants.
Roderick means "fame rule" which is what I aim to achieve.
As you can see I've changed the title pic. Carpenters' workshops look organic and smell nice, smithies like the gateway to Hell, car repair shops are esoteric. People who do a lot of writing are either surrounded by mess (ergo, a disorganised mind) or inhuman tidiness (Who'd marry him?). The desk is a self-assembly job from Ikea and figures in Gorgon Times.
The cushiony thing on the seat is a Putnam Wedge, recommended by a back-pain doctor. Other than technoid books, most of the paperbacks are in French. But not for showing off since few get this far at Chateau Robinson.
Having discarded two blogonyms I presently feel somewhat naked round my lower parts. I have a reputation to re-establish; it would be far easier practising arson.
Photo: Aged 14, Ilkley Moors in background.