I shamelessly try and ape my favourite author when it comes to writing, but it isn’t the easiest thing. He has plenty of experience to draw from- an eventful education in a public school, encountering mambas and lions whilst working in remote parts of Africa. He became a fighter ace in the R.A.F during World War 2, who was temporarily blinded when he was forced to crash land in the Libyan desert. When the war ended, he held the rank of Wing Commander, and was secretly working for MI-6 in the United States. He helped fashioned a device for relieving excess brain fluid, gratefully accepted by the medical world. He’s sold over 100 million novels, often typified by his unsentimental droll sense of humour. And he was 6, 6”. I find this intimidating- the only thing he and I share is Norwegian blood. And I’m only half Norwegian.