I realise I’m not a speaker; I’m a writer. It’s part of the reason my career has so slowly progressed: because I detest the sound of my own voice. My beloved wanted us to start a podcast, but I just can’t do it, for my voice is so boring, stuttery and slow. I cannot do interviews: I cannot preach with my tongue.

For the whole of my adult life, I have sought refuge in the keyboard, typing words on the screen. In the nearly three decades that I’ve made writing my primary means of communication, I have constructed vast mountains of words, but still to this day: if I can avoid speaking with my tongue, I will avoid speaking with my tongue.

At the weekend I recorded two articles in voice, but I quickly withdrew them after my children mocked and derided me. At least my beloved attempted to dampen the blow by blaming my microphone, but in truth: no, I’m no speaker at all. I’m a writer.

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