Should I Stay or Should I go?

Been away a lot... apologies for that... Suffolk, Stroud, and working and trying to find work... and writing... and reading...

Anyway, I think we're about done with the interview process... Redford came back from the bar. We had more drinks and cheesy snack and then I weaved my way home...

In the morning I was too embarrassed - and too hungover - to ring Redford and ask him directly whether what I thought had happened really had... Did he offer me a job or what?Did I dream it? Was it a drunken misunderstanding? And what if he had offered me a job, but only because he was a bit pissed and was now regretting it? And if he had offered me a job... had I accepted it or what?

It's a terrible thing being English... these are questions that Americans would have sorted in one five second phone call. But then, Americans probably wouldn't have done TV business in a boozer. And if they had done it a boozer there would have been at least one note-taking participant who would have stuck to mineral water...

Anyway, I don't call... and Redford doesn't call. And I'm quite relieved because I'm not sure what I will say if he does call...

Thing is I already have my perfect day-job. I divide my time between writing novels and plays and programming, organising and running courses for aspriring writers at Ted Hughes old manor in West Yorkshire. (This is a literal old manor - not just a mockney geezerism). The Ted Hughes Arvon Centre comes complete with the best view in England. As the man himself called it 'That beautiful little kingdom, that eyrie above the crevasse of trees and water...'

More important than the view is the fact that it's that rarest of things a day-job that dove-tails perfectly with my own writing. The students go into a workshop and I go into the library. They emerge a couple of hours later for coffee, so do I. they come out for lunch, so do I. In the afternoon they go off to write or to talk through their work with the tutors, and then I start my actual work... liaising with potential tutors, or, more often, talking to plumbers, gardeners, dry stone walling experts, roofers, IT specialists, cleaners and suppliers of bog-roll. Ialso spend some time mucking about with the people who do the real work. Caron and Ilona. And it's a laugh, with just enough annoyances to have the illusion of being a proper job. Many of these annoyances are helpfully supplied by head office in London who sit in the Ministry of Literature, working out how to corral creativity so it fits this framework and that strategy and answers to Arts Council memorandum 576a sub-section c. Or hassling us about Health and Safety leaflets.

(Note to the tories: If you get in - abolish the arts council. See what artists not only survive the three years post abolition, but continue to make creative work. Fund those. And have a directly elected Arts Supremo in charge. Only Don't call her or him an arts czar though, please. There are enough Czars. Call him or her an Arts Chef. Or something.)

It's a good job. Not brilliantly paid, but it's Ok. Couldn't be more congenial. Plus I've learned loads. About writing, about publishing, about human nature... Because each week sixteen students rock up and they are all ages, all beckgrounds... I've met lesbian strippers. I've met priests and doctors and lawyers and journalists (lots of journos, lots of teachers...) and actors and unapologetic housewifes and very apologetic soldiers. I've met call girls and politicians and PR gurus and eco-warriors. And not only that but I've met them in the context of all of them meeting each other. And not just meeting each other, but living together, eating together, cooking together, working together.

The Arvon Foundation courses are like week long communes. A hang over of the sixties that provides a space where aspiring writers work intensively, guided by professionals, without the distractions of the modern world. There's no internet, no Tv, no fuss and no bother. And freed from the shackles buzz and bleep of the day-to-day world, people becaome their best selves. they return to the state of energy and hope that they lived in before the demands of work and family kicked in. They come alive again. It's an ordinary miracle that is in itself energising to be around.

It's a great, great job. Lovely people in a lovely place, talking about lovely things. What could be better than that? Why would I give that up for a TV soap?

Well, there is the money I suppose. There's always the money. Of which more anon...