The Story Of a Precocious Child. Part One.

I was a forward thinking child from an early age having had my Davy Crockett hat stolen from my head at the age of five. I reasoned that the bigger you are the more likely you are to get away with things like that. Unfortunately I was no great size, so I reasoned, not unnaturally in my view, that I needed allies to retrieve that hat. A week pasted and despite my protestation to friends, no gathering of quasi Tennesseans formed for the vendetta, so I took matters into my own hands. I stole my mothers jewelry. This was my first venture into the shadowy world of bribery and courting power. Not being aware of the term ‘sexist’ I distributed these treasured trinkets showing no bias to either gender at my Junior School in an attempt to ‘buy’ my gang. This was not a great strategy on my part but a valuable lesson was soon learnt. Never trust a woman with an unsolicited gift. Before the closing School Bell could ring one eminently forgettable female had reported my largesse to ‘Miss‘ who immediately changed from being the all singing and dancing recipient of my polished apple, into a finger wagging ear pinching tyrant. She lead me by the throbbing lobe through the building collecting on our way all the misappropriated goods from my would be avengers. Mum and Dad were not best pleased.


About Danny Kemp

I was at work one sunny November day in 2006, stopped at a red traffic light when a van, driven incompetently, smashed into me. I was taken to St Thomas' Hospital and kept in for a while, but it was not only the physical injuries that I suffered from; it was also mental ones. I had lost confidence in myself let alone those around me. The experts said that I had post-traumatic stress disorder, which I thought only the military or emergency personnel suffered from. On good days, I attempted to go to work, sometimes I even made it through Blackwell Tunnel only to hear, or see, something that made me jump out of my skin and that's when the anxiety attacks would start. I told my wife that I was okay and going regularly, but I wasn't. I could not cope with life and thought about ending it. Somehow or other with the help of my wife and medical professionals, I managed to survive and ever so slowly rebuild my self-esteem. It took almost four years to fully recover, but it was during those dark depressive days that I began to write. My very first story, Look Both Ways, Then Look Behind, found a literary agent but not a publisher. He told me that I had a talent, raw, but nevertheless, it was there. His advice was to write another story and that I'm delighted to say, I did. The success of that debut novel, The Desolate Garden, was down to sheer hard work, luck, and of course, meeting a film producer.
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