The work problem

Financially we were in real difficulty. Mother was no longer able to earn any income, and wasn’t eligible to receive any disability benefits on account of her refusal to formally acknowledge the existence of the mainland.

Though our financial outlays were slight, we had obligations we were unable to meet – council tax bills, electricity bills. Even though we were self-sufficient in food, drink and the basic necessities of life, we simply had no money to pay that bills that landed on our doorstep with great frequency. And if we couldn’t pay we would face the worst excesses of mainland debt-collection policy – first the seizure of our geep and anything of seeming value they might find in our house, and then the house itself would be taken from us.

I was old enough to work, but there were no jobs here on Happy Island and I couldn’t leave to seek work on the mainland as by this time my mother was too frail to be left alone.

Added to which, I had no skills that would impress any employer, even if they were to allow me to work from home. Sure, I could manage an island, take care of the geep, collect the mail from the boatman every morning, care for my mother, clean the house, cook meals, but nothing anyone would ever pay me to do.

Plus, I had only one passion, literature. I loved books, through which I had learned all about the peculiar existence of mainland folk, mainland history and mainland knowledge, but it was stories that shaped my world. I wanted to become a writer myself, but how to go about it?

The obviously place to start seemed the Off-Mainlander magazine.

The Off-Mainlander was our link with the world. The monthly magazine covered all the important developments of life on the thousand plus islands off the shores of the mainland. It included regular features on all aspects of off-mainland life. Surely I could write something that would be of interest to other off-mainlanders.

The first article I wrote was about caring for a disabled relative whilst living on an isolated island. It was a personal piece, full of useful advice and practical tips, but also a heartening story about a young person’s dedication to their mother.

A few weeks later I received an abrupt letter saying that the piece was unsuitable. It gave no explanation as to why it was unsuitable, or what sort of article they would like to receive in future. Having read the magazine all my life I thought I knew exactly the type of article they published, the only difference, as far as I could see, was that it wasn’t festooned with spelling mistakes and poor grammar.

I tried a different tack; an article about being a young adult struggling to enjoy a social life, whilst stuck on an island with no other inhabitants bar his own mother and a few geep. Again I had no joy in getting published, indeed I didn’t receive so much as a rejection letter this time.

The bills were piling up. In desperation, one night, I decided to write an article about something I knew precisely nothing about. Choosing a mainland town at random, I wrote a made up piece about the joys of visiting Swindon. I got carried away, writing extensively about the extraordinary view of the hanging gardens and pyramids, and send it off to Things to Do in Swindon magazine.

I actually enjoyed writing something that wasn’t heart-felt and personal, something that was, essentially, completely made-up. That same night I wrote a piece about mountaineering in Belgium for the Mountaineer Magazine. I was still awake early the next morning when the first boat arrived, and I gave the boatman both articles to send to the respective magazines.

A few days later I was astounded to received acceptance letters from both magazines. Enclosed with the letters were cheques, which I hastily cashed. Neither cheque bounced, so I had become a working author.

I continued to send personal, heart-felt articles to the Off-Mainlander Magazine, all of which were rejected, with no reason ever given. Articles on how to raise geep, an article on the History of Happy Island, even an article on how to write articles about things you know nothing about.  Not a single one of them was ever published.

To make money, though, I continued writing about things I knew precisely nothing about. As a strategy it seemed to be 100% effective. I had articles published in virtually every other magazine that existed: You and Your Clitoris Magazine, Danes in Devon Daily, an article in the Motorway Motorist (I’d had to look up the word ‘motorway’ in the dictionary as I’d no idea what one was. And the word ‘clitoris’.)

My reputation spread. I became known for my ability to write copy about any subject under the sun, always to deadline and to a precise word-count. Occasionally the factual accuracy of my articles might be challenged, but this was of little concern to neither publishers or readers. I started to be headhunted by magazines wanting articles about specific subjects; Raise Your Gazelle Well, Teach Your Rabbit Aerobics, Remove Your Own Appendix.

Such was my success, I started to be approached by advertising agencies, attracted by my ability to write about anything from a perspective of total ignorance and indifference. I was responsible for many of the ads you may remember from your youth: Come to Sweden – someone’s got to, and ‘If you never leave your house you won’t need a Renault Adventurer’. This particular ad featured a young boy moping around the house, staring at the rain as it thudded against the window, watching an elderly woman baking on television, trying to teach his cat to moonwalk. It was highly autobiographical.

Thus began my career in TV advertising. I did a whole series of adverts, all based around boredom: the child bored with his parents who infiltrates the neighbouring family, who have exciting parents, a wild array of interesting children, and of course a very expensive car. I was responsible for the bored rabbit, who lay around all day gorging on chocolate, and the bored housewife, who, essentially, had an affair with a Cadbury’s flake. How that one got past the censors I’ll never know.

Of course, the TV reception on Happy Island was very poor, and I didn’t pick up Mainland TV 3 and 4, so I never got to see any of the adverts broadcast, but that didn’t matter. The important thing was that it had solved my financial problem. I had an income. I had a career. And I could get the mainland council off my back by paying my bills.