I haven’t written lately. It turns out that taking on a permanent job, albeit one built around a four-day week, leaves me with less spare time than I’ve had at any point in the last seven years.

Then again, do I really need to be writing on this website, now that I’m gainfully employed? I have no personal brand in need of promotion. I’m not seeking any outside income, the publication of my second book has been delayed (two years and counting), and my third book exists as an unhappy draft in a hidden folder on my computer – the digital equivalent of the locked attic which, unbeknownst to the rest of the household, shelters a lunatic?

The question of whether to maintain a website has been a minor thorn in my side these past few freelance years. My accountant has persistently denied that it has any professional relevance and refuses to categorise it as a business expense. Trust me to pick the UK’s most scrupulous accountant. I’m worried that if I tell him I’d like to move to a less scrupulous accountant, he’ll inform HMRC to keep a watching brief on me, just in case I eventually become Conservative Party Chairman.*

My accountant is an Arsenal fan, so he’s probably smirking right now. We generally allocate two minutes of footballing chit-chat to the start of our catch-ups. It’s the necessary ‘small talk’ section of the conversation, before he moves onto the fun part where he outlines the multiple administrative errors I’ve made over the past financial year, and how much extra I now owe the State as a consequence.

I’ve found that between football and parenting, I’m capable of striking up a conversation with the vast majority of the UK population. Given how socially awkward I am in the company of strangers, parenting has been incredibly useful. It’s the go-to conversational topic I never knew I needed, yet now use all of the time – whether to strengthen existing bonds, to establish a rapport, or to demonstrate that I’m not a sexual predator (football is not helpful in this regard).

If the stranger next to me hasn’t any children, or any parents, and doesn’t like football, the conversation is doomed to grind to a halt. At least until my ‘say anything regardless of the consequences’ gene kicks in and I provoke anger and incredulity by suggesting that Christmas should be permanently cancelled, or that people who don’t vote should be de-platformed, and possibly imprisoned. I’d sooner cause a fight by saying something I don’t mean** than subject myself to the agony of a prolonged, uncomfortable silence.

However, based on the evidence of the past 12 months, such circumstances are rare. Football and parenting always come to the rescue. And, besides, if I can maintain functional personal discourse with an accountant, surely I can do it with anyone?

No, the main challenge holding a conversation together these days is not a lack of things to say. It’s exhaustion – my inability to string two coherent sentences together because all I’m getting from my brain is the constant, deafening cry, “I wish I was asleep”, over and over.

It’s far easier to write an email or send a WhatsApp message than it is to show up in person and practise conversation in real time. I’d benefit from the timers they use in chess matches. My fellow interlocutor would issue their statement, the timer would start, and I’d have between an hour and two and a half hours to formulate my response.

Conversations would take several days, but they’d be precise and considered. You’d think more carefully before telling someone they’re an idiot. Or if you did decide that “You’re an idiot” was genuinely the best response, the other person would be under no illusion as to your views on their intellectual prowess, leaving them free to take their conversation elsewhere.

It’s probably best to end the ramble here before someone writes to tell me that I’m an idiot. All I’d ask is that you delay your response a couple of hours, and if you still feel the same way, I’ll happily accept your criticism.

*Unlikely, although I could try and bring down the system from within (because that always works).

**Probably don’t mean.

Photo by Austrian National Library on Unsplash