At the time it was an unremarkable routine job – clearing the junk left by a tenant who’d flitted from a garret room in arrondissement 14. There was nothing of any note; a bed, a chair, a desk and a lot of empty wine bottles
I make my money from providing my clients with a swift and convenient clearing of their properties, and I get to keep anything of any value their tenants might leave behind. The furniture was dilapidated and worthless but the desk drawers were locked and there were clearly items inside.
Utterly trivial detritus of an anonymous life of no consequence
I sprung the locks and found a number of handwritten journals and sheaves of pages. Tied with strings and elastic bands, some of the papers were attached or inserted into the hardback journals, others bundled separately. In amongst all this were letters in envelopes received from corespondents, letters written but never despatched, photographs, drawings and ticket stubs and receipts of all manner.
In short, it was the utterly trivial detritus of an anonymous life of no consequence and of no interest to me or, I might think, anyone else who was not a part of it.
Fact or fiction?
Then I fell ill and found myself confined to bed and lacking a book to read. But I had one of the curious journals to hand and more out of boredom than anything else, I started to read. Whoever Tim Baggaley is (or was), he thinks himself worthy of a biography. The journals are a mixture of his own writing of his life; of letters, musings, poetry and stories. Some of it is clearly fiction, some dull enough to be fact but equally, there’s a wealth of curious tales difficult to credit but with tantalising threads of honesty that cannot be dismissed.
So I now find myself intrigued and set upon a course of cataloging and publishing Baggaley’s journals. I’m verifying the facts where I can and welcome contact from anyone who knows him, or knows of his activities and whereabouts. For you, dear reader, here are the life and times of Tim Baggaley – writer, actor, dancer and bon vivant. A disorganised confabulation of his thoughts, dreams and daily machinations. Make of it what you will.