"Write about what you know" that's what the all the how to books on writing say, or at least that's the message all those I've leafed through over the years have pushed.

So, what I know best is small yet perfectly formed: there's books, a big part of my life; a touch of wanderlust in there, I've always enjoyed traveling, cinema, art, the odd spot of football. These then ought to be my front line shock troops, a mere snap of the fingers, and they're lined up, prepped and ready to be written about.

Except. Life's full of excepts and but's. I find, there's another topic, one I'm more familiar with than I'd like to admit, my dark secret - dust. Damn dust, my flat is full of it. I'm shovelling it out. Where the hell does it come from?