ON page 168 of Dave Graney’s autobiography, I stumble upon myself, sliding spookily through the narrative like a dictaphone-wielding apparition.
In theory it’s a bit part, but since Graney hasn’t named many of his characters, not even his band mates – not even The Go-Betweens for goodness sakes – we’re all on equal billing.
“It’s not often you come across yourself,” I remark to Old Dog, trying to sound modest.
“Unless you’re a teenage boy,” he notes.
Keeper? Enjoyed that. Am available for appearances.
Hey man, now you're really living 
Well played, Old Dog.