 An autobiography is a book a person writes about his own life. It's usually full of all sorts of boring details. Don't worry, well soon I have it back in place. This is not an autobiography. Boys is hideous and audible. I would never write a history of myself. Let that be a listen to you boy. But throughout my younger days, a number of things happen to me that I've never forgotten. Go faster! Go on, make it go faster! Put your foot down! Even after a lapse of 50 or 60 years, they remain seared on my memory. I don't have to search for any of them. All I have to do is skim them off the top of my consciousness. Darl, go and heat my seat in the bogs. I want it warm. Some are funny, some are painful, some are unpleasant. I will not allow you to be treated with cruelty. I suppose that's why I've always remembered them so vividly. And it was your idea. Roll Darl, you were a murderer. All are completely true. Harald Darl was a Norwegian from a small town called Sapsborg. His father and my grandfather owned a store that sold everything from cheese to chicken wire. Get the ladder, Harald. The roof is leaking again. And make sure you fix it properly this time. When my father was 14, he was up on the roof replacing some loose tiles. When he slipped and fell, he broke his arm just below the elbow. The doctor was immediately called. Stand aside, please. Medic in attendance. Who is the patient? It's my son Harald, sir. But where is he? He's the one lying on the floor. Ah, right. Let's examine him, shall we? Open wide. Say ah. Ah! It's his arm that's hurt, not his throat. Of course. I was getting to that. What is it, doctor? A simple dislocation. Don't worry. We'll soon have it back in place. Ah! Can somebody get me some brandy? For the boy's pain? No, for me. Steady the old nurse. The doctor was so drunk, he must took a fracture for a dislocated shoulder. I'll manipulate the arm until the shoulder pops back in. Will it hurt him? Only a little. Ready? Here we go. Ah! Ah! By the time he had finished, a splinter of bone was sticking out through my father's skin. His arm was ruined. Surgery then was not what it is today, so they simply amputated below the elbow. Young men remember not go clambering about on slippery roofs in future. Over time, my father taught himself to manage with just one arm. He could tie his shoelaces one-handed as fast as most people do it with two, and he invented a fork with a sharpened bottom edge so that he could wield both implements in the one hand. The loss of his arm, he used to say, caused him only one serious inconvenience. I always found it impossible to cut the top of a boiled egg. Harald and his older brother, Oscar, wanted to leave Norway to seek their fortunes. Grandfather refused to support this tomfool idea. You must stay here and help with the shop. I forbid you to travel overseas. They ran away and worked their way to Paris on a cargo ship. Here they split up. Oscar went to La Rochelle, bought a fishing boat and was soon the richest man in town with a fleet of trawlers and his own canning factory. My father set himself up in the ship-breaking business. A ship broker is like an enormous shopkeeper for ships, supplying everything they need when they come into port. By far the most important item is fuel. In those days, fuel for shipping meant only one thing, coal. So Harald decided that his business should be based in the greatest coaling port in the world, Cardiff. From here on we have what sounds like one of those exaggerated fairy stories of success. The business prospered. Will you marry me? Father acquired a beautiful wife, Marie, whom you met in Paris. Sample complete. Ready to continue?