A Writer’s Day: Philip Ardagh
I awake at 5.30 every morning and write 300 words in bed whilst Toto, my houseboy, rubs half a fresh grapefruit into the sole of either foot. Often it’s the same word repeated 299 times, but the routine is important. Then I shower, after which Toto blow-dries my hair with his breath. It’s a slow process but gives him a true sense of worth. I return to bed and, at 7.30 sharp, “wake up” again, this time for the benefit of the cameras of which ever documentary crew is following me that week.
I breakfast in my pyjamas and dressing-gown, a simple afraid of kedgeree, devilled kidneys, and eggs benedict, washed down with freshly-squeeze papayas and freshly-ground coffee, the beans of which have passed through the digestive system of my pet serval (not servant), for extra flavour.
After breakfast, I review the morning papers whilst Toto draws me a bath and an artist – whether it be Chris Riddell, Chris Priestley,Jim Field, Benji Davies, Tom Morgan-Jones or, more recently, Rachel Ward or Tanya Landman or others of that ilk – sketches me for a grateful nation. I rarely bathe for more than two hours at a time, and limit myself to three or four toys: a plastic duck, a toy boat, a diver and octopus, say. (At the weekend, I treat myself to the Rubber Sailor.) I do much of my thinking here, which is why I have my assistant, Dotty Hendrix (a retired head-teacher) sit on the loo – seat down -- pen poised.
I’m at my desk by eleven o’clock, my chair having been warmed by Toto whilst he fires up my computer, checks my fountain-pens for ink, sharpens my pencils, and rubs off the dirty edges my rubbers. At this time, I will write another 300 words and will not leave my desk until they are done. Next, I sign photographs and responses to fan mail, written my Mrs Hendrix on my behalf (the responses, not the fain mail). I also answer any questions put to me by the documentary crew of the week.
I now snatch a moment in my busy schedule to have an aperitif, then a simple luncheon of just four courses -- soup, a cold collation, pudding, cheese and biscuits – followed by a glass or two of brandy. I eat so little so as to keep myself fully-alert for an afternoon’s writing, limiting myself to a nap of just an hour or so. If I am appearing on an evening news programme, a car will generally pick me up at around 3.00 or 4.00pm, otherwise, I’ll be back at my desk, posting on Facebook, Twitter or Instagram, or sending anonymous death-threats to Robert Muchamore. This will be accompanied by a glass of sherry, a few cups of Earl Grey tea (with lemon, not milk) and a small selection of French fancies.
Many authors have strange rituals or superstitions and I am not immune to them. I have an inverted crucifix in the downstairs cloakroom and a life-size effigy of William Gladstone nailed above the drawing room mantelpiece. On my desk is a miniature bronze of Daniel Hahn, the nose of which I always rub for good luck. I never write on the first Tuesday of each month and always cross the road when overtaking someone from the Indian subcontinent on foot. I flat-out refuse to wear earrings made from radishes.
I will always pause to admire my fine reflection in one of my many trophies in my literary awards’ cabinet and mutter the words, “You handsome devil, you,” whilst stroking my beard. If I have hand-cramp from writing, Toto will stroke my beard on my behalf. If I have lost my voice through public speaking, I will mouth the words whilst Dotty Hendrix utters them.
If I am shortlisted for a literary award but fail to win, I have cultivated a tradition of congratulating the underserving winner to their face but bad-mouthing them behind their back. If the award is a prestigious one, I may also drain the brake fluid from their car.I won’t stop for supper until I have covered at least three sides of A4 paper, whether it be with words, wallpaper, or a rash of practice-signatures for if I ever marry into royalty, turning the dot of the ‘i’ in Philip into a little crown.
After supper, during which I express my opinion on a number of world issues to a select few, (and to the fly-on-the-wall documentary unit), I will writhe blind drunk in front of a roaring fire in winter months or writhe blind drunk on the lower lawn during the summer. I will usually recover sufficiently by 2.00am to write an average of two chapters before falling into the arms of Morpheus at 4.30. (He is my wife’s personal trainer.)
