I've done something I thought I'd never do: I got a decent photo of myself.

Months ago, when I signed with literary agent Janet Reid, she told me to get a proper head shot, not that it was certain it would be needed, but "just in case". It was explained to me proper meant not taken by my wife, friend, or random passing stranger.

I ignored her, of course. It would have been the ultimate in hubris to assume I was going to need that photo.

Then Janet sold the book to St Martin's. Now I needed a photo.

Luckily for me, my wife went to school with the talented Vicki Skarratt, who does promo photography for a living, usually for actors. It all looks very cool, doesn't it? The truth is, I am sitting on a child's chair in her driveway in tracksuit pants and bare feet. It is definitely not leather jacket weather. Between every shot I am staring into the distance so my eyes are properly focused, and on command waving my arms about and shaking my body, which apparently is an acting trick for looking relaxed. Vicki tells me most people are uptight about photo shoots, but I thought it was lots of fun.

This is not the real me, btw. This is an idealized Gary who did exist, for the fraction of a second required to snap the photo, but who alas is no more. He's gone, replaced by the grotty, everyday Gary everyone around me is stuck with.