...is to morph into a typical Aussie bloke who goes down the pub with his mates to talk about sport, wink at the barmaid and eat a pie on the way home before watching more sport. Alas, such fulfillment seems beyond my grasp. Instead I stay indoors writing novels that hardly anyone reads. And those luckless fools who blunder into contact with my diseased ramblings are frequently unamused, disappointed or appalled.

Unfortunately, writing - or as I prefer to think of it, my horrific journey of absurdity - is not showing the slightest sign of giving me a respite to pursue my pie-eating dream. I'm trying to win a war with language but I lose battle after battle and sometimes - just to shake things up - I massacre my own troops. And now after two decades of effort, I'm starting to understand why artists - whether successful or otherwise - go mad, become alcoholics or blow their brains out.

And, of course, the funny thing is it's all voluntary. No one is holding a gun against my head demanding I write another novel. Whenever I stick my head out of the window I don't see scantily-clad parades of pretty girls holding up placards that read: Write another book, you Welsh hunk, and you can ravish us.

Although I may have dreamed this.