I was in Hounslow, west London last year. I went to a cafe in a leisure centre. I’m not proud of it, I was volunteering with my son’s school. And I’m alone, I’m not eating or drinking and I’m writing in my notebook, right? Teacher walks over to me: “Hey, what you writing for?” Isn’t that the weirdest fucking question you’ve ever heard? Not what am I writING, but what am I writing FOR? Well, god dammit, you stumped me! Why do I write? Well… hmmm… I dunno… I guess I write for a lot of reasons and the main one is so I don’t end up being a fucking teacher!

Of course, this didn’t happen, and it the joke doesn’t really work like this. Leaving aside Bill Hicks unnecessary misogyny and condescending attitude towards our sisters in the hospitality industry - you have to admit, though, he would have been funnier than the (ri)bald bloke on Masterchef - the question stands. What am I writing for? Why do I write?

Well, the truth is, I write for a number of reasons. The main one being because it’s something I enjoy doing. Typing up blog posts on the fly in the cafe of the leisure centre where my son and his class did their weekly swimming lesson allowed me an hour to create something with no internal editor or censor stopping me. It was very cathartic. Writing this now with a pen and paper at the kitchen table is the same.

So, mainly I write for me, which is liberating. It helps me breathe and to feel alive.

But I also write for my sons. One day I’ll be gone, probably while they are still too young, and I’d like to leave them with something of me that they can get to know when that time comes. My oldest is always asking me to tell him stories about when I was young, but I’m very bad at that, and can’t remember much that’s appropriate for a ten year old anyway.

In my twenties, I used to write and receive back copious letters from friends, but also from my Dad and his Mum, my Grannie. One day my Dad’s letters stopped coming. There was no reason, or even hint of a reason. I was several thousand miles away at the time, so unable to investigate. The story I was told turned out to be a spiteful load of old bollocks, but at the time it was the only one I had, and so I believed it. I don’t feel like I know my Dad very well at all, but what I do know is that he seemed to find most enjoyment and fulfilment in his life when he was away.

After I explained to my son’s teacher that I was writing for pleasure, one of the swimming instructors at the next table gets up, stands over me and goes, “Well, looks like we got ourselves a writer!” while all the kids in their swimming costumes tried to peer over my shoulder from behind the glass screen to see what I was writing, laughing and pointing at me. That only lasted a few seconds, thankfully, before they all got on with their swimming lesson and left me in peace.