I like to write funny stories. I also like to think I’m not too bad at it. When it comes down to it, I like to think I’m a pretty funny person.

But how do I know? How can I tell that I have even an ounce of humour in my bones? How do I have any idea that I’m not actually deluding myself and I’m about as funny as…as funny as…a thing that’s really not funny at all?

I went to the movies last weekend. This shouldn’t really be a big deal. I mean I’d hate to end up being one of those bloggers who has so little to say that they end up giving you a rundown of their weekly movie going activity.

Then again, from my point of view, it kind of is a big deal, mainly because I don’t actually get to go to the movies very often. I think this is only the second movie I’ve seen all year. So I’m hoping you’ll bear with me.

I see myself as a pretty imaginative person. I like to think my mind is able to take off on flights of pure fancy.

And I’m pretty proud of that ability. In fact, if you were to ask me what characteristic of myself I’m most proud of, I reckon the answer would be my imagination.

I like sports. I’ve always enjoyed watching sport. As an Aussie, my preferences are pretty local – Australian rules football and cricket are my go-to games. Though I don’t mind a bit of tennis now and again. And I can even get into more foreign-based sports like soccer and baseball and (even occasionally) American football (though deep down, I reckon my all-time favourite sport is that wonderful Irish conglomeration of just about every other game – hurling).

I’m a creature of routine. Every day, every week, I tend to follow the same behavioural patterns. And one of the things I have sorted to a fine degree is my Saturday morning routine.

Saturday morning is one of my favourite times. Sleep in. Gradually raise myself out of bed. Eat a long, slow breakfast while reading the paper. And when I grab that paper, there is one section I always make a beeline for (at least after I’ve checked out the sports) – the literature section.