“I took a look at someone’s novel the other day,” I say. “Someone who lives in this street.”

            “Oh-oh,” says Nige, grinning behind his raised lager glass. “Doing a neighbourly favour, were you?”

            “It’s a steampunk novel that – “

            “Sucks?”

            “Well . . . “

            “Everyone thinks they can write a novel. Just like everyone thinks they can sand their own floors.”

            “At least you get some work out of it when they try and fail. I tell them what doesn’t work with their book and what they can do to fix it and rarely even got a thank-you. They just go looking for someone else who’ll tell them it’s great.”

            It’s Monday night in the Quaggy Arms. Nige and I are leaning against the counter. His hair is powdered with wood dust. I know he’s been re-sanding Brian’s floor today. Unfortunately, for us writing coaches, I can’t re-sand Jane’s novel.

            “Can’t you just convince them they need to write it again?” he says.

            “It’s not just re-writing she needs to do. She has to learn how to write. But very few people ever do. They just keep fiddling with the same flawed novel, send it out, get it rejected and blame the business for not understanding how brilliant they are.”

            The new, pretty, young barmaid takes Nige’s order for a pint for me and two more for him. Her eyebrow doesn’t rise at his request, not because she knows he likes to have three lined up near to closing time but because she just doesn’t seem interested.

            “The writers who succeed,” I say, “are those who frequently re-learn, re-begin, keep trying to improve.”

            “Sounds like the difference between the German and England footy teams,” he says.

            “You mean, like they always win and we always lose?”

            “Before answering that I gotta quote you something Gurdjieff once said.”

            “You’ve been reading Gurdjieff?”

            “Lucy lent me a book of his quotes; here’s a good one: ‘no conscious work is ever wasted’.”

            “Come again.”

            “What’s the main problem with English footy?”

            “Hubris.”

            “Exactly. Several hundred years of the robber barons converting their Mafia-like activities into false respectable fronts such as heraldry, sir bleedin’ this and dame bleedin’ that, ensuring the masses’ blind belief that royalty plus empire-building equals ingrained superiority, reinforced by one lucky win in ’66, and ever since we expect the England footy team to win every competition they go in for, but in fact all they do is fail and nothing ever changes.”

            “Whereas the Germans?”

            “Well, they already had a good team, built on solid footy principles. But they did bad in the 2000 Euros, finished bottom of their group, even below Blighty. So what did they do? Went back to basics, that’s what. Put in place a long-term plan. Every Bundesliga club had to set up a youth academy; no one person could own a football club; building for the future. Now, they’ve got two teams in the Champions League Final, stuffed with young German talent.”

            He’s pleased with this. Downs the rest of his pint in one, looking as if he wants to say,  Ta-da!

            “So, what you’re saying is my writers don’t want to re-create themselves with a long-term plan. Instead, they keep believing they’re already good enough really; it’s just bad luck they haven’t been spotted yet. So they tinker around with their book but don’t actually change anything fundamental.”

            “Exactly. I reckon that’s what Gurdjieff meant by no conscious work is wasted. But non-conscious work is absolutely useless.”

            While he works on his second pint, I think about this.

            It takes a long time to write a novel. Yet people write them without much conscious input. What should happen is that when it’s reflected to them that the book doesn’t work, they ditch it and start again, only this time first learning the skills they really need.

            “They don’t want to give up all the work they’ve invested,” I say, “even if it’s non-conscious.”

            He frowns. “If a builder took the same approach,” he says, “it’d be like he keeps on sanding the floorboards in house after house but every time cocking it up; or plastering walls what just collapse seconds later. He wouldn’t get paid. He’d get sued. He’d see that he’s useless and either give up or learn how to do it proper.”

            “Okay – so what do I do next time a new writer doesn’t take my advice?”

            He shrugs. “Don’t apply your conscious work to it in the first place.”

            “Which means?”

            “When I’m asked to estimate a job, I try to figure what the punter really wants. Mostly, it’s cheaper than what they like to admit. The problem is, they ain’t going to admit it to themselves, neither. So I have to look at all the clues – how they’re dressed, what kind of carpet’s on the floor and so on – then give ’em a price that suits their actual needs.”

            He’s probably right. Maybe it’s just my pride that has me giving a casual book written by a casual writer (even if they don’t think so) my full, professional attention.

            “I always like to believe any writer wants to be the best writer they can be,” I say.

            He finishes his third pint, meaning it’s nearly time to go.

            “Maybe they do,” he says, “but the thing is, Tel, Old Crapper’s Gloss White looks just as good as Dulux’s – when it first goes up, at least.”