I have written for my bread and butter (usually margarine!) ever since I failed high school in 1965. I have made both a fortune from it as well as nothing. I have had popular daily or weekly newspaper columns that pay exceedingly well with The Age and The Australian and The Herald Sun and have often spoken brilliantly at office Christmas parties and just as often sat on the same Brunswick Street seat with not a single solitary crumb of pudding to nibble. I have been famous and fucked. But there is no feeling quite like seeing yourself in print.