My parole officer keeps asking me why my latest blog features more photos than written entries. "You're a writer, aren't you? So write." But that's the problem, you see. I write fiction. Crime novels and spy novels. I kill people, literally, for what may in distant realms of fantasy be called a living. Which means the boundaries between fact and fiction become blurred whatever I write. I've written shopping lists that read like suicide-notes, and a get-well card that made a serial-killer puke. In my blog I dip into reality only when I have to. You may have noticed. My therapist has a fancy medical term for it. "You're f**king insane!" she told me recently. But then she would say that. She needs the money. The truth, though, is partly this: I spend all day writing. Websites I design for fun or because my conscience demands reparations for the sins of my past. Whatever. A man must draw a line in the sand, if only to confuse the enemy. So here's an old photo I found recently. If you've explored this site then you might recognise it. It's where I grew up in the Highlands. That's Meall an t-Seallaidh in the distance, below which lies Balquhidder and Rob Roy's grave. It's what's known as a 'thin place', where the boundaries between Heaven and Earth, Fact and Fiction, are noticably threadbare. Welcome to my world.