The Story Of a Precocious Child Part Two.

I grew up somewhat overshadowed by that incident never quite being able to connect with either parent, trust possibly being an issue. This mistrust was once put to the test and sadly, although not my fault, I was found guilty on the grounds of previous behavior. I had a throughly deserved reputation as being a destructive lad, as there were not many panes of glass within a twenty to thirty yard radius of our back-garden that my suffering father had not replaced for an irate neighbor, they swearing to kill me if it ever happened again. Another lesson that I learnt early in life, people don’t always do what they say, as I tested their resolve over and over and I’m still here to tell you the tale. Anyway, one day I was at home on my own, Oh if only for a witness, when I saw the flight of a stone appearing over the far fence and ultimately smashing against a huge sheet of glass on the conservatory roof. Crash it went leaving splinters everywhere. Yes, you’ve guessed, haven’t you? I got the blame. My father died before I had any chance to know him, and I must have been a nightmare to him. He had been in the Regular Army fighting in North Africa, Sicily and up through Italy where he remained as part of the occupying force when that Country capitulated. In relatively recent times it worried me that whilst there, and being only twenty-six and still single at the time, he may have had a liaison with a beautiful Italian seductress resulting in some poor misfortunate not knowing that they had a handsome step-brother. This lead me to visit the Naples area of southern Italy on a quest to uncover such person. I was, it must be said, not hoping to find some poor relative, but the opposite, some rich person, rolling around in Liras with enough to see be out, but alas no-one was discovered. My mother spent her war w

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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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