Dreams of Leaving

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I tried to write a novel when I was twenty. I was living in Athens at the time, in an apartment that was, quite literally, unfurnished. I produced 160 self-conscious, introspective pages on a table made of fruit crates, then ground to a halt. Back in London, I started work at an advertising agency, but the desire to write never left me, and in November 1982, after four years as a copywriter, I decided to try again. I resigned from the agency, moved a friend into my council flat, and gave my ancient, rusty Vauxhall Viva its first ever service. As December approached, I drove south, making for a village in Italy. After a lengthy interview with a well-known comic actress, during which we covered subjects as various as kleptomania and homosexuality, I had secured the job of winter caretaker for her converted Tuscan farmhouse. In return for painting walls and treating beams for woodworm, I would be able to live rent-free until the spring. I remember standing on the deck of the ferry and watching the stained, off-white English cliffs recede. I was wearing an ankle-length brown coat, red tartan trousers, and a pair of battered Doc Martens. My hair was dyed orange. I was twenty-seven. I had drawn a line through my life, and everything was going to be different from now on. I would write and write and write, and perhaps, in the end, something halfway decent would emerge. I breathed the cold, salty air of what felt like an entirely new existence.

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