The Age calls my agent, offering me ‘six figures’ for ten pieces a year, on anything I fancy. I say I’m happy at the Independent Monthly. The editor of the Australian summons me to his office. I go out of curiosity. He lolls behind his desk, I perch on a chair. Sums of money are mentioned, and a carrot: one day, he says smoothly, I ‘might even get to interview the prime minister.’ I stare at him, too amazed to say, ‘Is there anything in my work that makes you think I might be interested in interviewing the prime minister?’ Walking home I think, ‘He hasn’t read your work, you idiot, and he never will.’