My state of independence

Being a self-employed copywriter in Ringmer is often a thankless task. This is good. In the past I’ve crafted letters from various chief executives, I’ve given voice to a cartoon mobile phone, I’ve interviewed one of the greatest racing drivers of all time and I’ve briefly become an expert on international rail travel. All great fun - and without any sign of Mark Bridge, whoever he is. My name rarely appears in print. As a result, no-one stops me in the street to offer their opinion. No-one photographs me when I pop to the shops wearing pyjamas and flip-flops. No-one asks me if I’m him from that thing.

The freelance lifestyle is also unstable. This is also good. While some of my contemporaries get their thrills from driving fast cars, kite-surfing and wild parties, I get my adrenaline rush from wondering whether my invoices will be paid before our mortgage is due. This is much safer, with absolutely no chance of a twisted ankle.

A writer in a big city may talk about working in a different coffee shop every day for a change of scenery. Here in Ringmer, fewer choices mean fewer visits. Ruling out the local pubs - which is a good idea, because I'd be inclined to stay for a bowl of chips and a pint when I'd finished my coffee - I'm left with a choice between Café Ringmer, an outside table at the bakery and the regular ‘Souper Saturday’ fund-raiser at the village hall. Quite simply, living in a village saves me a fortune on my cappuccino budget.

Then there’s the freedom. I don’t have any set hours to work, as long as I get the job done. I can stay up late if I want (although, to be honest, I often start dozing on the sofa before 10pm. The Newsnight theme might as well be a lullaby.) I can work at weekends, without any of the annoying paperwork associated with overtime payments. And I can even start early, just like most other people with regular jobs.

Of course, there are disadvantages. By not commuting, I miss out on the camaraderie of fellow travellers as we stand nose-to-armpit on public transport, I don’t see the cheery gestures that drivers exchange at the Cuilfail roundabout and there’s no chance for me to boost my circulation as I sprint through the rain to my desk.

Let’s face it, I am a man of mystery. And I’m about to become even more mysterious, because this is my last East of Earwig column. To everyone who’s enquired about the new house (still delightful), the grandson (still delightful) or the late Rupert (still in his little packet on the bedroom windowsill); thank you for joining me on my voyage of discovery through Ringmer. Meanwhile, if you’d like to know what happens next… I’m open to commissions.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 138 March 2018.