Lately returned from Arvon where I enjoyed the usual mix of inspiration, perspiration and, towards the end, vegetation. Fun, as ever, to hang out with writers of all sorts. Discussed such definitions with the remarkable Rebecca Ray; particularly when, or whether, to ‘announce’. We seem to have had many of the same conversations, most of which go something like this …

Stranger At Party: So, what do you do?
Patrick At Party: I’m a writer.
Pause
SAP: I mean what do you do for a living?
PAP: I write. Books.
Pause
SAP: I heard the average author earns £800 a year.
PAP: £800? Lucky bastards.
Pause
PAP (cont.): I’m joking.
SAP: Oh.
Pause
SAP: Are you published?
PAP: Yes.
SAP: I mean, not self-published. I mean, properly published.
PAP: Yes.
SAP: Really? I mean, really? Who publishes you?
PAP: Penguin.
SAP: Penguin. Wow. Fuck. Wow. You must be really proud of yourself.
PAP: Not really. It’s just what I do, isn’t it? I mean, what did you say you did?
SAP: I’m in town planning.
PAP: Town planning. Right. So does that make you proud of yourself?
SAP: It does actually. Morecambe town centre? <i>That’s</i> one of mine.
PAP: Oh.
Pause
SAP: What’s your name?
PAP: You haven’t heard of me.
SAP: I might have done. I read a lot. Mostly sci-fi. What’s your name?
PAP: Really …
SAP: I might have done.
PAP: Patrick Neate.
Pause
SAP: You must be so proud of yourself. Are your mum and dad, proud? Are they? It must be brilliant to write a book. I should write a book. In fact, everyone’s always telling me I should write a book. In fact, I will write a book. Would you look at it for me, Pete? Do you mind if I call you Pete? What’s your e-mail address, Pete?

And outside the cherry trees are blossoming which makes Pete the writer happy as he meanders to the shop to buy pint after pint of milk to take the edge off gallon after gallon of tea, his head full of words, some of them well chosen.