For the second time in my life, I find myself writing a book about… myself. Given that I’m 29-years old - and not Britney Spears - I realise how ridiculous that is. But I have an excuse: I didn’t mean for either of them to happen.
The first book told the story of how, over a period of five years, I attempted to become a dot com billionaire. An attempt that failed so spectacularly - and hilariously - that I was offered a book deal to write about it.
The second book - to be published next year - is a follow up, of sorts. To cut a long (100,000 words, due by the end of December) story short, it’s the tale of what happened next. How, borderline suicidal and desperate to get out of London, I came to a realisation: that for the ridiculous amount of money I was paying each month to live in a pokey one-bed flat in London, I could afford to live in a boutique hotel in Manhattan.
Inspired by that brutal fact, I gave up my flat in East Dulwich, sold all of my possessions and embarked on what was supposed to be a two-month experiment in living as a modern-day nomad. I’d travel where the mood took me, moving from upscale hotel to upscale hotel, and using technology to work from anywhere on the globe. And during that time I’d try to figure out what my next project would be: my publisher at Weidenfeld and Nicholson was keen to hear other book ideas, but I had none.
Or at least I didn’t think I had. Then, a couple of months into the journey, I finally found time to call my agent and apologise for not having kept in touch.