Yes, but what do you actually do? I mean, now you have your own flat and all that space, what do you actually do?

I look out of the window, or at the wall, depending on the seat I am in (I’ve asked for an easy chair for Christmas). Out of the window I see walls. So I suppose I look at walls. That is what I do.

What do you see?

I’ll tell you what I don’t see: I don’t see walls. I look at them, as I said, but I don’t see them. I see rivers ebbing and flowing and descending into whirlpools; I see never-ending mountain ranges; I see corvids circling and I hear them singing. And more, much more besides.

This is what you see. I ask again: what do you do?

I write. I write at my computer.
I compose letters to newspapers and politicians and global organisations. I enquire about public funds being spent on defence (tanks, guns and training for soldiers). I never save my letters, I never print them and I never send them.
I write historical poetry. I write first person narratives of apprentice stonemasons working on the construction sites of Beaumaris and other Welsh castles. I write romantic exchanges between the kings and queens of Europe. I never keep my poems, and I never share them.
I write fiction. Hour after hour I sit at my desk and write about wealth and poverty, love and loss, and other perennial themes. Needless to say I never save, send, print or share my stories.