It’s Sunday afternoon. On the way to a picnic on Jesus Green, Rowan Pelling asks me a very good question.

“Do you intend to live alone in a bedsit on benefits for the rest of your life?”

The answer is…

The answer is…

Oh, I’ve lost it again. I need a little guidance from well-wishers. I need focus in pursuing the Unusual Life I’m meant for, but with confidence and deliberation. I need Diary Angels.

I’ve tried Normal Life on so many occasions. By which I mean, doing a job you utterly feel at odds with purely for the money. It seems to work for many people, and I admire them immensely. But for me it’s living a lie to the point of nausea. I feel a trespasser. A fraud.

The World Of Work doesn’t like me very much. It brings out all my most useless qualities, though they make for quite good reading in a diary. It’s my Borderline Autistic Buffoon side that is brought to the fore in such jobs. I have spilt soup in an old lady’s lap when working as a waiter, and have been sacked. On more than one occasion, I have accidentally deleted an entire firm’s computer records, in circumstances bordering on the poltergeist-esque, and have been sacked. I have broken the frame of a priceless gilt mirror and kept quiet about it, but decided it was best to leave the employment of the museum in question, before it happened again and I was sacked. I didn’t break the mirror itself, just a bit of the frame.

Actually, I wonder how that works with the superstition about seven years bad luck? Because this would have been seven years ago.

I have been sacked from your basic office admin job. Admittedly, this was because I kept phoning in sick and deciding instead to go to the cinema or the park. I don’t really blame them for sacking me. But on most days, the idea of going into that office per se made me feel sick, so I phoned in sick. I was merely being honest.

I’ve just remembered that this office job involved being the secretary of a lady lawyer. The weird thing is, although she’d been to university and I hadn’t, I had a much larger vocabulary than she had. She would ask me how to spell words, and what words meant.

She once asked me, “Dickon, what does the word ‘pretentious’ mean?”

I resisted the temptation to reply, “You’re looking at a definition.”

I seemed over-qualified for the job, though I have no A Levels, let alone a degree. To remedy this, I have considered Adult Education, and enrolled for an Evening Class last year. But all I learned was that I have trouble working in a class environment, that I really need help meeting deadlines and finding an incentive to write (hence the Angels). And when the teacher of the class in question turned out to be someone I knew, whose pyjama party I’d once attended, it was hard not to take a hint from the universe. I was always closer to the teachers than the pupils.

At the age of 35, I have learned beyond a reasonable doubt that the World Of Work is mutually incompatible with me. It makes me ill, or I break valuable things, or computers mysteriously crash in my presence. We are better off without each other. It’s a waste of time all round, just adding to the amount of sackings in the world.

I cannot convincingly play the role of a normal person in a class, or a normal person in a group workplace. But I can be Dickon Edwards. So if we’re all agreed about that, it’s just a question of developing a work ethic and treating Being Dickon Edwards like any other job. The only problem is how to earn money from it, and how to develop it so it produces something people might want. And want to pay for.

Though I know some people regard my entire existence as a form of sarcasm, I am serious about the Diary Angels scheme. I no longer view the diary as busking with words. From now on, this is Work With Sponsorship. I write to a regular body of readers and seek to provide an interesting and unusual read which they cannot get anywhere else. Tales of dipping in and out of worlds, of being a London Dandy, of oddness against the world, of being the unlikely connection between many diverse people and social scenes. I feel I don’t particularly belong anywhere. This is my greatest hindrance, but also my greatest asset.

A select few (so far) are willing to show their appreciation, enjoyment, trust and support in a way that is both useful for me and gives me a concrete reason to sit down and write. They buy a year’s membership of Dickon’s Diary Angels. In return, they have given me a new sense of professionalism towards both the diary and my life. I’m now looking towards seriously getting off benefits from being Too Strange To Work, forever bubbling against the poverty line and living like things will always be this way. In ten years, the Angels are my biggest ever step towards permanently earning a living from writing and all other symptoms of Being DE, paying tax regularly instead of having to live off the tax of others.

Though I’m happy for others who like living that way, it’s not made me happy at all. I get emails from Professional Shirkers, telling me of all the dodges with which one can live well in London not just on benefits, but also claiming free Tube travel, getting one of the nicer council flats, all without employment. I realise one could argue that Professional Shirking is in itself as skilled a vocation as any real job. But I’ve done it for long enough now, and am appalled that the true Shirkers see me as one of their own. It’s nice not to have to endure the sullen choreography of the morning commute to do something I resent, but I’m not actually happy doing nothing with my life.

The truth is, Work does make me happy. As long as it’s work I can actually do without feeling out of place, and which people want me to do. Hence the Diary Angels.

My answer to Rowan Pelling’s question about whether I’m going to stay living like this to the grave, or change, is therefore contained within my pledges below. I am in the hands of the Angels.

THE ANGEL PLEDGES

I, Richard “Dickon” Edwards, being of almost sound mind and body, hereby make the following Pledges to my Diary Angels in this, the tenth year of my Online Public Diary.

1. I pledge to write a diary entry every day, comprising not less than 500 words. On a day when this is not possible, I pledge to write two entries the following day.

2. I pledge to treat it as if it were a formal commission for a professional publication. Though with the added benefit of not having to fit in with a house style or agenda. I can also write without fear of having an entry censored or delayed or rejected or edited to its detriment.

3. That said, I also pledge to be my own brutal whip-cracker of an editor, my own tutting sub-editor and my own wary libel lawyer. I will nag myself to meet my daily deadline, and strive to eschew self-indulgence or baffling references of little import to the wider world.

4. I pledge to write as if the whole world is reading, and as if whole worlds to come are reading too. I do not believe in ‘Friends Only’. All writing, if it is any good, is about inviting all possible readers for a one-to-one dance. Even those who do not like dancing. The writer merely provides the dance steps. Simply, I write to be read.

5. I view myself, and my diary – which is possibly the longest running blog in the UK – as public property, like a listed building that’s also a tourist attraction. Likewise, the Diary Angels are the equivalent of a donations box by the entrance or a ‘Friends’ association, keeping the diary free for others by contributing a subscription.

6. Other ways of viewing the Diary Angels are:
(a) A vote of support in the worth of Mr Edwards’s life and writing.
(b) Sponsoring A London Dandy.
(c) The Dickon Edwards Fan Club.
(d) A Tip Jar.
(e) Serious investors in artistic projects who are looking to see a return, like the Angels of Showbusiness.
(f) Keeping Mr Edwards away from the World Of Work so nothing more is broken.

7. I pledge to use this new discipline as a route to proper paid writing work outside of the Diary. In the hoped-for event of my finally earning a regular income from Being DE-related work, I will ensure all Angels receive something proportionate to their investment, or even just their money back. I also pledge to get off benefits, and stay off them.

8. Until that time, I pledge to listen to the Angels if they have comments about the Diary. Within reason.

9. When I put out new books or CDs or perform at events, said Angels will be offered free or discounted copies wherever possible. I also pledge to produce exclusive Angels-only items.

10. As a Sponsored Dandy, I pledge to always maintain my appearance with the diligence and zeal of any other worker’s uniform. I shall never leave the house without a tie or silk scarf. Even when I’m off to the laundry or the nearest shop, or going to have my hair cut. In the latter instance, I shall take a change of clothes to the hairdresser. Thankfully, she is also an Angel who cuts my hair at her flat.

Signed, this First Of May 2007,

Dickon Edwards

If you haven’t already done so, please consider making a donation using the PayPal button below. Amounts over £10 enroll you into the Diary Angels for one year.

Thank you!

In tomorrow’s entry: Cambridge, hugs, and being shouted at by old women on bicycles.