Humour is God's special gift to humanity. Handy, because it turns out to be necessary.

It’s how I fill the time when nothing’s happening. Thinking too much, flirting with melancholy.

The beachcomber goes looking for trouble, everything he finds is a sign of trouble. The writer is the same; without trouble he has nothing to work with, so he picks over the tide line, over the bits and pieces of people's lives with grim fascination.

I guess it must be a time-of-life thing, looking back and trying to make some sense of who I am and where I've been. It's a weird thing, having to give an account of yourself, to try to make sense of yourself for yourself. I'm not that old, but I have been writing fiction professionally for a long time now. I started so young and went so hard for so long. And I guess it was about feeling I had the space to look over my shoulder.

I don't consciously watch and file lived moments for my work. I have a couple of writer friends who do that and it creeps me out, to be honest. I know people think I must do that too, but I don't. But I do have a long memory.

And you can't help but worry for them, love them, want for them - those who go on down the close, foetid galleries of time and space without you.

Doing nothing is making certain you lose. Which is just gutless.