One wonders just what motivates people to write an autobiography. It may be because it can provide a useful source of income. Perhaps their life has been so extraordinary that they wish to share their experiences. Of course it could just be that they want to show off.

Whatever the rational for such publications they have become plentiful. My recent trip to the library presented me with several shelves packed with such life stories. The range of authors was extensive. Books on show were from politicians, sportspeople, actors and actresses, comedians and reporters to name but a small selection.

The life stories of some individuals are well worth exploring. Recently I have read the autobiographies of two women who are both roughly my age. The contrast in their writing styles is dramatic. Kate Adie uses the title of ‘The kindness of strangers’. It was easy to relate to her account of her early childhood experiences since they very much mirrored my own upbringing. What was excellent about her account was her attention to the facts. Her insights to the many troubled incidents she witnessed were never boastful. The book centres on what she saw together with much humour concerning the tribulations facing a woman reporter in war situations. Her humility is self-evident. That she survived the many dangerous encounters is nothing short of a minor miracle.

In contrast the autobiography of Miriam Margoles is of a completely different perspective. She is a well-known actress who delights in being a show off. Her book very much reflects her personality. Many of her descriptions are explicit in the extreme.

Reading autobiographies led me to consider just what my own story might look like in print. First it would need a title. That is the easy part. ‘Accidentally Yours’ would be appropriate. Throughout my life I have had my fair share of incidents such that if any of the family has a mishap it is called ‘Doing a John’.

To escape a school for delicate children I dislocated and broke my little finger. A local hospital failed to sort it out so I was sent to Great Ormond Street Hospital for a second operation. At college I put my arm though a window taking out tendons and an artery. My subsequent visit for the plaster and stitches to be removed saw me get a dizzy spell and hit my head on the ink well at reception wiping out a week of appointments and turning me into a blue Smurf.  My exploits with my dog are still part of folklore in Horrabridge. Tying the dog to the car bumper by rope and then driving off with him following at speed fortunately caused him no permanent damage. My visit to the vets when he got bitten by another dog is a story in itself. It was utter chaos. 

The list is endless such that my autobiography would have little room for anything else. It is not going to happen.