... which would you be?
I recently said I was like Douglas Adams's displaced-person-in-space Arthur Dent. OK he's male, but in other ways he's quite like me: mildly perplexed and still in his dressing gown; adrift in the universe with a man with two heads and three arms, in a spaceship powered by improbablity drive; all of which he's prepared to believe would be much better for a nice cup of tea.
I thought that was a suitably light way of evading the embarassment of having to describe myself properly. However, someone who used to be my friend read it, and said they thought I was rather more like Madame Arcati in Blithe Spirit.
Didn't authors use to be able to hide behind a twenty-year-old photo on a dust jacket?
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