The man in the cheap supermarket suit and polyester tie asked him what it was that he wanted to do with his life. He found himself casting about in his mind for an appropriate answer: for, if the truth were to be told, it is not really something that he had thought much about. In fact, it was not something that he thought about at all. Not really; or at least, not so as he could remember. He had a vague recollection that once upon a time he wanted to be a professional football player and score the winning goal in the cup final. Did he also want to be a train driver? He was sure that he did: long ago. But these were childish things; for one, he did not have the talent to be a professional sportsman - and in any case, he was now too old for such fantasies. Train driver, though! They just sit for hours pressing buttons and holding a lever called the dead-man's-handle. And they're well paid too! Train driving was still on the radar. Perhaps. Mr Cheap Suit demanded an answer. 'I want to be a writer', he said. He could hardly believe his own voice. He looked around him to see if there was anyone else in the room putting words into his mouth, but no, there were just the two of them. He dreaded the follow-on questions that he knew he could not answer: 'why do you want to be a writer?'; 'what kind of things do you want to write?'; 'have you ever written anything before?' He anticipated the questions, but his mind wouldn't furnish him with plausible answers. He would have to wing it and make it up as he goes along. Spontaneous and imaginative: that's what he would have to be. He could think of no finer attributes for a writer.