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.

Saturday evening. I’m in Pizza Express, Jesus Lane, Cambridge. The restaurant is huge and plush with room after room of dark wood panelling, like a temple to the pizza. One table has a tab for the guests of the Cambridge Word Fest, whose main venue is the ADC Theatre next door. Different performers and authors appearing at the festival stop here to eat and drink and move on. I’m there with Rowan Pelling and the Decadent Cabaret lot when Billy Bragg suddenly appears and takes a seat, and chats to whoever is at the table that time.

What on earth do I say to Billy Bragg?

“Hullo, you’re Billy Bragg. You’ve made some great records.”

He probably knows that. Plus he’s here in a non-musical capacity, to discuss a book he’s got out about modern English identity. To ask him about his music when he’s here about his book, which I haven’t read, might annoy him. So I don’t say much after I’m introduced to him. Instead, I look on as he holds court at the dining table. He assumes people know who he is, as everyone around the table is introduced to him but he never says “I’m Billy” in return. I can’t decide whether this is rather arrogant, or alternately, if he thinks introducing himself is enormously patronising – an act of false modesty – and thus arrogant in that sense. After all, these are all fellow performers at a small book festival, and he’s one of the biggest names there, with a famous face and voice. It’s fair to assume they will know who he is without introduction.

What’s not in dispute is that he has an amazing sense of self-belief, as if he’s unlikely to ever admit he’s wrong about anything. Like Mr Geldof he’s a self-righteous bully; but in a good way, with good intentions. Most importantly of all, he’s funny with it.

“Phew! I’ve just come straight from Manchester. I was on the radio there, discussing the history of conscientious objectors,” he says as he sits down. And I’m struck by just how thick his Essex accent is. He is more like Billy Bragg than ever before.

Rowan Pelling asks him about a TV show he made with Boris Johnson about Glastonbury, and she confesses she’s never been to the festival. Mr Bragg tells her she really must go – at whatever age. I don’t say anything, but I’ve never been to Glastonbury either. I’m not sure if it’s very ‘me’. I fear all those people, and all that mud, would just make me more lonely, really. But if I ever received an invitation and had a nice travelling companion, I wouldn’t refuse. Put it that way.

Michael Bywater is a grumpy, Falstaffian, fogeyish, white-haired Character of a man with a capital ‘C’. At the dining table, he produces his black MacBook and revises a naughty piece to read at the Decadent Cabaret, typing away while the wine arrives. The event’s MC, Alex, reads it, but suggests cuts. He passes the laptop back to Mr B, and I note he’s indicated the cuts by highlighting them in translucent blue on the screen, using the word processing program. Very Proper Editor stuff.

I tell Mr Bywater that I recently saw his face on my own iBook. I had downloaded a torrent of The South Bank Show special on his friend Douglas Adams from about 1992, and he was in it as an actor, playing Dirk Gently. Pretty good casting, as he inspired the character in the first place. I tell him the name of the excellent torrent site, where you can also get the latest Have I Got News For You.

Me: You need to know how to work torrents, though.
Bywater: Oh, I know all about that.

When I get home, I look him up and find out he’s as big on computers as the late Mr Adams was: co-writing computer games with him, currently writing columns on technology for the Telegraph and so on. So yes, yes, he does know how to do torrents.

Among other things, we discuss the underrated 80s film Clockwise, and I’m pleased he likes it as much as I do. He points out two things I hadn’t noticed before. (1) That it follows the patterns of Aristotle’s tragedies to a tee. (2) That the shot of the schoolboy caught smoking in a doorway is a reference to The Third Man.

I recite my favourite Clockwise quotes. One from John Cleese’s character:

It’s not the despair. I can deal with the despair. It’s the hope.

And, from Penelope Wilton:

This is just like being nineteen again! (tearful pause) I HATED being nineteen!

Then Ali Smith’s party of celebrated lady authors arrives, and we’re all booted out to make way. I recognise Jackie Kay, but sense she’s a bit reserved and so don’t talk to her. But Ali Smith has a more open and friendly air about her, and doesn’t seem as haughty as your average literary figure. She seems to actually like meeting people, and has a rather magical glint in her eyes. So I go over to her as our party is leaving.

Me: Ms Smith, I just want to mention a connection we share which is vaguely interesting. We have both been the muse for songs by Mr Nick Currie, aka Momus.

She inspired his mid 80s song ‘Paper Wraps Rock’ and one other from the same period that escapes me. I inspired something from his 1997 period called ‘Pale Young Men’. Though he never released it, I like to think it counts. At least, when thinking of something vaguely interesting to say to noted authors.

We discuss the Tove Jansson book she wrote an introduction to, The Winter Book. She mentions there’s a new Jansson novel coming out in the same vein called Fair Play. Well, new to most British readers: Ms Jansson still insists on remaining dead, of course. And she offers to send me a copy. So I scribble down my address and thank her profusely.

Oh, look, 952 words already and still no Diary Angels Pledges. I have so much to say, tales to tell. It’s just as well that I now know there are definitely people out there who want to read these tales; enough to put coins into the slot of my mind.

In Tomorrow’s Entry: Mr Edwards lists his Pledges To The Angels at last.