Ken Preston lives in the West Midlands on the street where Jack the Ripper was born, with his wife, two sons, and their two cats.
Trained in Fine Art, he intended to spend his life starving for his art whilst producing future masterpieces which would live on long after his death.
A couple of weeks later, once he realised he didn’t like going hungry, he got himself a proper job.
Since then he has worked in the reprographic industry, been a street performer, and a clinical photographer, during which time he saw more dead bodies and body parts than he cares to think about.
Now he sits in his cellar and writes novels, whilst pretending to ignore the cats.