Neil Robinson, a fortysomething househusband, once read that fiction writers tend to be exhibitionists who don't go out much. He decided then that being a novelist would be the ideal occupation for him. Subsequently the stacks of dirty dishes have climbed steadily toward the kitchen ceiling and piles of laundry now spill alarmingly from what used to be the guestroom. His children never get their dinners on time. In fact, Neil has dabbled in fiction for many years, but life kept getting in the way. For ten years he worked as a reporter and sub-editor on various East London newspapers. And it was while he was exploring the East End world of dodgy geezers and their dodgy motors that he discovered the Apocalypse has already happened; but most of us haven't noticed yet. In the mid-1990s he gave up work to look after his two sons. He has a degree in philosophy and literature and lives with his wife and children in Essex. Neil enjoys letting dust settle on his collection of Jamie Oliver cook books while he watches Nature turn his suburban garden into juvenile woodland. Oliphan Oracus is technically his first novel, though he is rumoured to have others stashed in a bottom drawer.
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