The newspapers have recently been full of stories covering the unveiling of previously-anonymous blogger Belle du Jour. BdJ's blog covered her earlier life as a lady of negotiable virtue; the blog had been extremely successful and had led to spin off book publishing deals and even a TV drama serial last year. But now she is no longer protected by a nom de plume.
I fear, dear reader, that my anonymity may not be safe for long. Soon the papers are going to be gathering around this place like, um, something that gathers around something else particularly attractive to the first something.
I can't blame them. After all, I had to undertake various activities to support myself in my younger years, too. I know, it's probably coming as a shock to you. But I should come clean.
I remember those days well. I suppose I was one of the lucky ones. It was a prime city-centre location and I only needed to work a few hours a Saturday, leaving the rest of the week free for study.
I don't remember all of the customers. They'd all blur into one after a while and, to be honest, you never really got the chance to form a relationship with any of them. They'd all have different tastes anyway. Some were traditional, some just plain weird.
Christmas was the worst time. You'd get people who were completely inexperienced in this type of transaction. They wouldn't know what to ask for. That's when I had to be creative.
Yes, it's true. In the 1980's, I had a Saturday job in the record department at WH Smith in Birmingham. It's probably best to declare these things before I'm outed.
There. I've said it. Let the journalists do their worst. Just please don't judge me.