The Lady's Man

Greg Curtis was born in New Zealand, land of the long white cloud and small flightless birds. He grew up in the city of Wellington, renown for its high winds and the almost magical ability of rain and sleet to be lifted off the street and blasted into one's face. After eighteen years of suffering the cold and wet, he was finally blown away in a particularly bad storm to settle far away as a student - for more years then most would ever admit to. Then finally when the universities pronounced him done he became an overqualified and underpaid worker in the health sector, (aren't we all). He has lived in the city of Rotorua, one of the very few places in the world where people have actually chosen to reside beside active geysers and breath air that reeks of sulphur, for the past fifteen years. He works by day for his daily bread by speaking to people about their various diarrhoeal illnesses. While at night he toils away on his books. When not engaged in his great passions of reading and writing science fiction and fantasy, drinking strong black coffee (some call it tar), and consuming copious amounts of chocolate (dark naturally), he lives a quiet life of contemplation as the high priest to his two cats. His duties include worshipping them with regular gifts of food, occasionally grooming them and providing them with a warm dry place to sleep. They in turn look down upon him with typical feline disdain, but occasionally deign to bring him gifts of headless vermin - as a warning. In a desperate bid to understand the meaning of his life, he has recently started studying philosophy, particularly metaphysics, and come to a the only conclusion possible. God is a cat! Cheers and be good or don't get caught. Greg.