This collection of monthly pieces represents a sort of sanitized autobiography and is carefully entitled the Public Confessions. (the Private Confessions will never be written.) Before I wrote the first column, I made a few rules for myself.
I have broken most of these rules in every column I write. My husband features heavily in these pages as a long-suffering but patient man. Bill and Max (dog and cat respectively) appear in later columns more often than I would like, and a quote from a taxi driver called Elias got both me and him in trouble with that Great Man, the ludicrous Jeffrey Archer.
Elias and I got to know each other well as we crossed and re-crossed the Greek island of Skyros, from airport to harbour, in a search for my lost husband. During one journey Elias told me that once he was hired by Jeffrey Archer to drive him, Mary and their guests on a trawl of the Skyrian pottery shops. Apparently, the Great Man has an impressive collection, though it has to be said that not everybody shares his taste. Elias would meet the great man's yacht at the harbour, and off they would go. Naturally I was intrigued and asked what the great Archer was like on his holidays. Elias said, ‘Sue, he talk to me like “dog”.’
I was indignant that Archer could show such disrespect to Elias (who had a genuine university degree, and good manners, unlike Archer).
I felt a prick of unease when I wrote this. When I next returned to Skyros I was astonished to be told by Elias that Archer had rung him from England to complain.
‘I don't care, Sue,’ said Elias, laughing, ‘He is pig.’
I agreed to work for Sainsbury's The Magazine after a delightful dinner at the RAC club with Delia Smith and the editor, Michael Wynn-Jones. I had never met either of them before. All I knew was that they were starting a new magazine and wanted to talk to me about it. My heart sank at the phrase ‘new magazine’.
This innocent-sounding phrase is usually a code. It means give me your hard-earned money, I will ‘invest' it in setting up a publication that nobody wants to read, and after much heartbreak and hard work I will set fire to your money, and cast the burning notes into the wind. Ensuring that you will never see your money again.
There was a great deal of laughter and almost as much liquor. After saying over the soup that I couldn't possibly fit in any more work, I talked myself into it during the main course. I heard myself gush over coffee that I would be delighted to provide them with 800 words a month. 800 words was nothing. I could write them on the train from Leicester to St Pancras, or in the kitchen while I waited for my rock cakes to harden in the oven. I saw myself seated at a pavement café with an elegant notepad and inky pen, honing and polishing 800 wise and witty words.
Forgive me if I larf. These 800 words have mostly been dragged out of me kicking and screaming. (Which reminds me, one of the rules was that I would also avoid clichés, like the plague.)
I don't think I have ever delivered the 800 on time. This is the most disgraceful confession of all. In fact, I have no right to call myself a professional writer. The pros get up early and go to their study. After a moment's thought they type out 800 lucid double-spaced words. After a little light editing this document is sent to the editor with a chirpy comment on a compliments slip. I'm convinced other columnists do not do as I do – lie in bed quaking with fear, gnashing my teeth, telling anyone who will listen (few lately), ‘I can't do it. I've got nothing to write about.’ In my own defence, and on the advice of my live-in therapist, Dr Eagleburger, I should explain that I work under certain restrictions. Magazines with high production values such as Sainsbury's Magazine cannot be thrown together overnight. We are a very long way from the Tortoise Society's news-letter type of thing. My words have to be written three months ahead, so topicality is out and I can't take advantage of national events.
I do hope that you enjoy these pieces. Personally, me, myself, I haven't been able to re-read them again.
Sue Townsend
Leicester
July 2001