All aboard the mooch-wagon…

I’ve never been comfortable with freeloading. Just isn’t in my nature – with the exception of airport business lounges of course, there I’m out for all I can get: free drinks, sweets, crisps, bits of cheese sweating away in individual plastic wrappers, you name it – I want it. But nowhere else. When the company ‘does things’ which is bloody rare, I am the model of restraint. None of this getting squiffy on the company dollar and photocopying the arse for me.

Which makes this whole being published thing a bit odd. I don’t like to freeload, but people like to treat, it shows they care and are generous and nice. And if I make too big a fuss about not mooching, then do I just end up insulting them, by refusing their hospitality? HC have been extraordinarily generous to me: parties with proper champagne (none of your cheap Australian fizzy here [which I can imbibe to a band playing]), meals out at swanky restaurants. I mean REALLY swanky. And even gone so far as to put me up in a hotel that must cost for a night what I earn in a week. Then there’s Phil, Agent, Friend, Short Person: he lives in Guildford, so we occasionally meet up for a drinkie and a chat. And he may be little, but he’s tenacious: sometimes we have to arm-wrestle for who can pick up the tab. I have to let him win every now and again so he feels special.

Still, if one is ever to truly achieve greatness I suppose one must learn to accept mooching as a part of life. Mochity mooch, mooch, mooch…