I chanced on this motley collection of documents some years ago in the course of my work clearing furniture from an abandoned studio apartment in South East London
At the time it was an unremarkable, routine job – clearing the junk left by a tenant who’d flitted. There was nothing of any note; a bed, a chair, a desk and a lot of empty wine bottles. The furniture was dilapidated and worthless but the desk drawers were locked and there were clearly items inside.
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 correspondents, letters written but never posted, photographs, drawings, 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. I had one of the curious journals to hand and so, more out of boredom than anything else, I started to read.
Whoever Tim Baggaley is, he thinks himself worthy of a biography. The journals are mostly his own writing and a mixture of articles on 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 cataloguing 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.