An autobiographical note

Who the hell writes this thing?

My name is Clare. I live in London, on the Isle of Dogs, which is where the taxi drivers live.
My writing name is Clare-Marie White. I have wanted to be a journalist ever since I wanted to be a vet (I was too scared of the needles. And no good at science.) Despite this, I have made a recent decision not to sacrifice my life to journalism, not to do anything I feel really uncomfortable with (like knocking on the doors on murder victim's families or inventing stories about the asylums seeker who ate all the swans) and not to get paid nothing unless it's for a good reason.
These are deeply unfashionable views amongst those who run the media but then the media ain't the fabulous, smoky, seething den of intrigue that I expected anyway. So sod 'em. But I like writing and I would like to be rich. If the two combine one day all will be well. And if people manage to spell my name right that will be even better.
I work for the Quakers, who are great. That doesn't make me religious, but I do think about religion now. I think about many other things since starting this job: I grapple with pacifism, though haven't quite got my head round it yet; I'm learning about Africa and other places that I didn't think much about before. In the sense of being political if you get passionate and angry about things and want to change them, I am political. Pretty much left wing (but don't try selling Socialist Worker to me, I don't want it), keen on capitalism done fairly - if that's possible.
I like music a lot: all music; I rarely know who I'm listening to, but I like it.
We'll no doubt talk about all these things in much more detail, readers. So that's all you need to know for now. And how kind it has been for you to listen.
Enough first person, on with the writing!