Your books though. We likewise understand both were a long time in the making. How long was it? How long did it take you to write each one?
How long is a piece of string? How many stones make a heap? More to the point, how long have tetchy people been answering quite reasonable questions with glib and off-putting comebacks? I don't know.
You're saying, then, you don't know how long people have been responding in such a way, or you don't know how long it took to write the books?
Yes.
All right. Moving on, tell us how life experiences have influenced your writing.
If by 'influenced' you mean how have past experiences of a general and perhaps extended type affected a specific, more recent occurrence, namely the composition of written works, I would say the past experiences have been vital inasmuch as all events require preceding ones otherwise they won't happen.
So, you're a determinist?
A what? Oh, one of those. No. If anything an undeterminist.
Do you mean indeterminist?
No I mean undeterminist.
What's that?
Can't say at the moment. Things haven't been settled. No decisions have been made.
Right. An indeterminate answer, another one, from the indeterminist. Though granted we went off-topic as well, sorry for that.
You have a topic?
Would have to say we do, yes. It's you.
How nice.
Surely it is. But we'll move on, again, to something else entirely. And we'll ask this: How do you react to criticism?
In the same way all thoughtful, mature and level-headed people do. Whenever learning of unfavorable criticism, I track down the person's details including home address. I then conduct a terror campaign involving everything from mild harassment to the construction of a siege engine at or near their front door.
That sounds unkind. And unlikely.
It is. Both.
Some questions on writing itself. First, what are your writing hours?
All waking hours. Any of them are fine. Unfortunately, total hours amount to roughly ten days per year tops.
What reference works do you rely on while writing?
Like so many, always within reach is On the Correct Use of Astrolabes, Sextants and Theodolites.
To what extent do you structure any composition before writing?
To the same extent the universe and all matter within it are structured in a way discernible and wholly agreed upon by every observer. In other words, not at all.
How many drafts do you write?
Only one, the final draft. I consider all versions before that not merely as separate works but in fact as the writing of another person. Except for the good bits. That was me.
Do titles come before, during or after the writing process?
Sad to relate, they could come only after. Yet with sufficient acclaim I expect to be a viscount or at least baron, hidalgo or chevalier in two years' time.
When you edit, are you primarily a cutter or an adder?
A bit of both. Though 'cutter' in a different sense.
How so?
I'll explain.
At start of an editing session I first print all pages to be edited. I then take a pen knife and, beginning outside a sheet's left edge, slice across blocks of text, cutting straight through to the right edge. I'm careful to ensure the resulting strips of paper are roughly the same size. Of course width is going to be the same but I try to make height as uniform as possible too, about 5 to 7 centimeters. Then I place the strips in a large bowl and thoroughly toss them like so much word salad (it is in fact a large salad bowl). Next I remove the strips and gather them into separate bundles, these likewise in stacks of much the same size, which I cinch and tie off with thread. By now there are many bundled text fragments. They go back into the bowl. From the bowl I draw one bundle, untie it and commence editing. This involves rearranging the strips towards a reconfiguring of fragmented text into something new. Crucially, each bundle must remain discrete; that is, single fragments cannot be held back for later use or in any way exchanged with the contents of other bundles. I'll admit a coherent line of thought does not always obtain. But I press on with the editing, typing up new text derived from each bundle and continuing until the bowl is empty.
That's ... something.
Yes it is. Eventually, I compare the new, reconfigured version with the original unedited passage. This often brings to light intriguing dislocations and thought-provoking permutations, many of which I incorporate into a final edit. Indeed I can tell you the process yields a narrative of familiar components but of noticeably altered storyline.
Sounds like a lot of work. Extra work. Maybe unnecessary work.
I don't mind, it's worth it. Despite, that is, more than a few readers having commented that in both of my books I seem to have used only the randomised, reconfigured text throughout them. Unhelpful. See above regarding 'siege engine'.
[Interviewer reaches to coffee table and consults display screen showing transcription text.] Yes ... do remember you saying that and—
I didn't mean 'see above' in that way. If you remember that I said it, that's good enough.
Very well then. Good enough, as you say, so you say. Although an interviewer has to wonder why the transcription device with screen was necessary in the first place.
See above. Into the past. Or below and into the future.
You've ... lost us.
It will happen.
We don't understand.
I wish it weren't so.
[Interviewer switches off display screen.]
All right now, we can understand you might want to have a bit of fun with this. That's fine. But let's avoid too many distractions and carry on.
Okay, yes. Agreed.
Right then. Let's get back to the cutting and slicing up of text you mentioned.
Yes, let's.
It sounds familiar, that sort of random text manipulation for effect. Hasn't it been done before?
Maybe. But with here the principle difference being I don't actually do it.
Right, you don't.... Okay, yes, or no, you don't. But, onward then, if that's possible.
It is.
Good, that's good. Good to hear. So, on to technology matters if you don't mind, ones specific to writing. What about computer hardware and software? Any preferences?
Well, for computer use in general, I can mention that when writing a passage set in previous decades I ensure authenticity by using only technology extant during that time. For instance, I recently completed a story set in the 1970s by tapping it out on a Sperry-Univac 1219.
In your opinion, what's the most significant way the internet has affected writing and reading?
It's made the appearance of this interview possible. Perhaps reason enough to uninvent it.
Do you read ebooks?
Yes. But only ones with content first published before advent of the light-emitting diode. Whereas I read works published from that era onward only when reproduced as cuneiform and etched in clay.
Do you use social media to connect with your readers?
No. For the reason I'm still waiting for my readers. But I know they've been busy lately so it's understandable.
What authors do you admire and why?
The ones who have gone about their work so quietly and unobtrusively that they've remained unknown to me.
Any quotation you wish you'd written yourself?
Yes. One for some recent repair work I had done. It would have read different, I can tell you. Insert rimshot here.
A question you might cringe at but it's something readers often like to know: Where did you get the idea for each book?
It came to me in a dream. And left in one. Frankly I was glad to see it go.
Next, and we're guessing you have no time for it just the same, but do you mind if we ask about personal matters?
No. I don't mind.
Good. And, as you know, it's also something readers are often interested in, the personal angle. So, anything you care to mention? Involvements, relationships? That sort of thing.
I can tell you that I'm in a loving relationship with myself.
Are you then? Unsurprising. How's that going for you?
Swimmingly. In fact you'd be surprised at some things. For instance how often I finish my own sentences. Or catch a knowing glance of myself in the mirror. The way lovers do, you understand.
We understand. We do. But, away from the personal then and back to the subject of art, art in general. Further to that, which other arts do you find interest in and enjoy?
If by 'find interest in' you mean something I occasionally take note of before soon enough ignoring it altogether, then it would have to be any artistic output that's resolutely conceptual. This is for the high entertainment value of witnessing what are often immensely preposterous people making absolute twonks of themselves. If by 'enjoy' you mean enjoy then nothing really.
'Resolutely conceptual', you say. Sorry but wouldn't that describe your own approach? To writing and to books and everything about them? No offence.
None taken. And fair enough, true enough. There's plainly a conceptual element about things.
And we'd also have to say you do seem resolved to being, yourself, preposterous. Again no offence.
Taken. This time. You don't have to say it. Not in that way.
Apologies. However, a conceptual conceit here would seem to be–
Your word, conceit.
Apologies again. Genuine. All right, we'll put it this way: It seems important to your conceptual framework that something like air quotes appear around the words 'author' and 'book'. With perhaps the intent being to obscure both writer and what has been written.
Yes. As one would do with the word [May displays air-quote gesture] 'interviewer'.
Well, maybe. But we're not trying to obscure anything. And we're really here.
Are you?
Oh yes.
And just to mention, this is another time when your use of the first-person plural can be a problem. Anything unpleasant ends up twice as bad. Twice or more.
Not fully sure what that means but we'll leave it there. In a somewhat related vein, however, in the matter of obscurity, how about your past? Do you lie about it?
Yes, I do.
You do?
Yes. All the time. But it's fine because I make everything much less interesting than it really was. You wouldn't want to overwhelm others with your interestingness.
No, you wouldn't. That's clear enough. And it could explain a few things. Nevertheless, on those implied air quotes again, if we may. Some might see it as part of an attempt to absolve yourself of responsibility. In this case, the responsibility to be a competent author and to produce a credible written work. There's also this: that making sure nothing is what it seems doesn't necessarily make something better than what it is. And likewise doesn't make it somehow different and so beyond, or perhaps off limits to, certain kinds of criticism. Do you agree?
What's your favorite color?
You … don't agree.
I'm guessing dun.
Time to move along?
It is.
All right. But first, if we can backtrack again, a quick return to other art forms that interest you. Or that don't. We're wondering, is there really no other art form that interests you? How about music? Many writers are inspired by music.
Music? No. Haven't you heard? Music is over. Outed as a scheming exploiter of emotion. Answerable to all manner of maudlin sentimentality and weepy nostalgia. Wherever it rang out, the sound of music settled like a fug. The hills may be alive but not with music. More likely anarcho-survivalists on maneuvers. Music is dead.
Perhaps best to move along. Quite along this time.
Perhaps.
Something straightforward then. Where do you live?
If you'd like that expressed in degrees of longitude and latitude, and I'm supposing you do, I'll have to determine my exact coordinates and get back to you.
How about your desk? Tidy or messy?
Tidy. Clean enough to eat from, which I do. I also sleep under the desk. It's a very small rented room.
Do your surroundings matter when you write?
No. Should they? Could they? The room is windowless and airless. No pets, no plants. No living things unless you want to count me and you don't have to.
On to the books themselves, your books, One and Neither and Scoria | Leavings and Oddments. How would you describe them?
I suppose I would have to use language. There's no way around it.
Can you think of another way?
I could draw a picture, but that wouldn't work well in a radio interview. This is a radio interview, isn't it?
No it isn't. This is for print publication.
I see. That explains the absence of microphones.
Yes, it does.
The big bulbous ones anyway. Those spongy, sometimes furry ones.
Yes. But what we're asking is, how would you describe your books? Are they realistic works? Fantastical? Perhaps metaphorical?
Metaphorical? No one buys metaphors any more. Who can afford them?
We'll ask in another way: Is this art?
How do you mean?
Agreed, yes, the question could be taken more than one way. But specifically, let's say these books, your books. Are they art?
They are not. They're artefacts.
What's the difference?
Six letters, which curiously are "efacts". And a world of.
Okay, that's that. Well, instead of describing the books, how would you describe yourself in terms of being an author?
As anyone should when describing oneself, I would first make certain the description is in solely the third person. This helps avoid collisions between the first and third persons, which are known to be especially injurious. Hence: R May is the putative author of two real-life books of falsehood, One and Neither and Scoria | Leavings and Oddments.
On the subject of your name, what—
Which likewise is itself a subject. The name, any name. A subject if not also a fiction.
Does that mean yours is a pseudonym?
No. It's not that kind of fiction. If you were to yell it in my direction I might respond.
Okay. But the R. What does it stand for?
It's short for are. The word 'are'. Though in this case are is an acronym formed from 'a reduced existence'.
That seems, some might say, rather arch and overwrought, not to mention overthought, as well as a little self-involved.
By 'some' you mean you?
Well, yes.
See above at cutting up text and 'I don't actually do it'. In this case I don't actually say it.
But you just—
Can we move on?
Yes. We should.
Yes.
A question on outcomes. In what way do you suppose this interview will help make your books more widely known?
By allowing me to say what's wrong with them. For me to tell you why I think the works are outstanding contributions to the republic of arts and letters would be self-serving, and possibly not true.
So what's wrong with your books?
At least one signal error in both: non-existence of real things. That is, of actual, well-known people and of widely known events. This along with lack of place names. And of the kinds of terms that ensure made objects are more readily identifiable. I realise now the pages should have been filled to bursting with such mentions of people and their doings, of mapped places, of proprietary stuff.
An example: rather than merely putting characters in, say, a restaurant, I should have put them in one of my personal favorites that I indicate by name, possibly name-checking the chef for good measure. That way the reader would have known the kind of tasteful and switched-on fellow I am and probably liked me more. And if the characters had happened to be dining when a major news story broke, one from the past decade or so, all the better if I'd got it in there, and explicitly not allusively. But I didn't. Regarding place names, it seems many people like to read fiction set in locales they've been in or perhaps would like to visit. Personal interest, you know, with its cosy reassurance, its supply of motivation. Nice and all but there's travelogue for that kind of thing and I'm no tour guide. As for made objects – goods, products and other vendibles – I need not mention the importance of brand names in fiction. Yet another oversight. On the whole, by failing to name names I wound up with just some silly made-up nonsense of no interest to anyone.
It sounds as though you think you've failed. Are you someone who tends to see himself as a failure?
Not at all. I consider myself a rousing success. But only insofar as I've failed in precisely the way I intended.
It also sounds like, in some ways, you don't actually care much for writing of any kind whatsoever. Of making something with words.
Fair point. Won't deny it. But then I'd say a person should have at least a small amount of contempt for something to do it well.
We can sympathise. When we conduct interviews, contempt is one reaction that sometimes arises. Not always but sometimes.
Well there you are.
Yes, here we are.
In fact, whenever I hear someone say 'I love my job' I have to think they're probably not very good at it. It's the true believers of the world who muck everything up. Not only religion, nation, family and the usual things but work too. Any kind of work. Beware the true believers.
However, specific to writing as a way to make money – whether grunt work or something a person might actually want to do – I will admit there's not much I like about toiling in the word racket. Yet, as said, with adequate disdain the work can be done well. Or well enough to get paid.
That's interesting. Particularly regarding disdain and how it might affect a reader's response.
How so?
Like this: Do you perhaps see any connection between that way of thinking and the fact that your books, by your own admission, have no recorded sales?
Ah. Interesting point in its own right.
We're pleased you think so.
And I'm glad you asked that question.
Are you?
Yes.
We're glad that you're glad.
Yes, glad. I'm glad you asked that question.
Good.
But I'm not going to answer it.
What? Why not?
[May holds a glass of water up to the light, mutters something to do with 'parts per million', before returning glass to table and standing with hands clasped behind back.]
The finished book is done.
A bold proclamation. Though an ambiguous one, not sure what it answers or refers to. Does it mean when a writer completes a book, that should be the end of things for the writer? Or, does it mean books these days are never complete owing to the digitalisation of text?
Either, depending on whether you're a that's-that sort of person or a tinkerer. Or can mean both depending on which you want to be or think you need to be each day.
[Interviewer, after confirming May will continue standing, closes spiral notebook and places it with pen on sofa seat. Interviewer looks up.]
Right then, at this point we must ask: Is this a double bluff?
Yes and no. Yes and no.
Of course, as expected. But by double bluff we mean, is your mockery of author packaging and what can sometimes amount to mythologising just another form of it, only in this case a self-mythologising?
Not sure what you’re getting at. But in part it's no, insofar as I was staying true to the general understanding of myth as something not true.
And for the yes part? From our perspective it seems your stratagem, with regard to making your books known, is along lines of:
Behold – one who stands apart. He disdains promotion and all its mummery. He has no time for the author as personality. He does not, will not, play along.
Principled, some might say. Others might say it's nothing but attention seeking in disguise.
I thought the point of this interview was to sell my books.
We thought the point of this or any interview was to ask questions and receive answers.
Point taken, but any more of the same and I'll sell even fewer books than I have. If, that is, sales can be tallied in negative numbers.
All right then, we'll move on.
I agree. In principle.
Yes we'll move on, seems we'd better. Let's move on.
Yes, move on. Us.
We will, however, take your proclamation as cue and ask something on the text itself, specifically regarding your first book, the novel One and Neither. In our research for the interview we found that over time you've made available many versions of the novel. Indeed earlier versions differ substantially from later ones. The book's title, no less, has changed. Does this not undermine the notion of a completed work?
If you repeat that last sentence without 'not', the answer is yes. If you repeat it with 'not' still there then I know not how to answer it.
So, you agree the constant changes serve to undermine a sense of completion?
I do. And the issuing of many versions has been intended. The fact is, I want no definitive version of the book to be at hand, at any time or any place. My aim has been to regularly release a kind of word-filled weather balloon with the only constant certain identifying marks affixed to its side. Or, similarly if you like, an airship of unspecified origin and unconfirmed destination. A dirigible variously deflating and inflating while throwing a mutable silhouette against the sky.
Very well.
And it's here you've in mind a bit of japery: Yes, dirigible, got that right. You're thinking airship disaster, no?
We wouldn't—
But if you were, and did, the japery. There, it's done for you.
So you're saying, in so many words, these multiple versions are meant to subvert the notion of completion?
Not all that many words is it? Trying to be quick about things. But yes, I am saying that.
And otherwise? What else can be accomplished by having no definitive version of a written work?
Good question.
[May stares at his wrist as though at a watch but he wore no watch.]
We're guessing, again, you won't answer. Or would—
No. Or yes, I will. I'll answer it. Your question. The question ... what was it?
The question was, what do you accomplish by not having, by there not being any definitive version of a written work?
Oh yes, that question. For one, doing so can preclude a work, any single object for that matter, from acquiring a kind of sacred aura. If there's no single, genuine article to venerate, then no sacred aura.
That seems unlikely for the work, a sacred aura.
Now you're just being unkind.
No, sorry. Not intended. We're saying it's unlikely, rather, that kind of veneration, when you consider various technological changes and the way people read these days. We're saying that a book, any book, is less an object any more and—
I know what you meant.
Apologies again.
Not to worry.
Okay, good. Then we'll crack on.
Yes. But first may I say something more on your mention of book technology? I'd like to pick up on what I mentioned earlier about definitive versions.
Yes, go ahead. Why not.
Thank you. I think. But what I wanted to add was that, regarding books as reproducible objects, and as part of making mine available in electronic form, I worked with tech specialists to encode a feature into One and Neither that further ensures no two copies are the same.
Do tell us more.
Fine. If you're going to be like that and—
No, genuinely. Please do. Tell us more.
Yes, more. All right. Well what I wanted to mention was that, after any copy of the ebook is downloaded and when the file is first opened, this code initiates slight yet widespread changes to the text. No single change affects meaning or sense in a substantial way. However, if two or more downloaded books are compared, variations among them will be so numerous that both or all books must be considered as different versions. Not to the point of being separate editions, mind, but each individual book will be different enough to qualify as the sole instance of the book as an object. This furthermore saves me the trouble, obviously, of having to faff about with the text myself in order to produce multiple, non-definitive versions. Can note another outcome as well: the presence of many unalike versions returns digital text to the era of the copy-clerk scribe, which my pre-publication focus group identified as a better era.
What era was that? When?
1600s or thereabouts.
Oh, yes. Good times.
The focus group thought so. Although they were unpaid. Prison reading club volunteers I think.
On the encoding however with the many versions resulting, and not to be argumentative, but like your other text manipulations that one rings familiar, as perhaps something that's been done before. In the case of the novel and an author personally providing individual volumes of a title, each copy slightly different, then as early as the eighteenth century–
Whenever someone says 'not to be' this or that they usually proceed to be precisely this or that. I appreciate that good journalism must sometimes be adversarial, but you've become a right killjoy.
Apologies. Deepest. However, we'd be doing any readers a disservice by not pointing out that, apart from its seeming to be technologically impossible, the spontaneously generated copies you describe very much sounds like one of those things you don't actually do.
Any?
Sorry, do you mean—
I mean any readers. You said 'any readers'. Are you supposing possibly none? Or likely none?
Oh, right. No. Nothing of the sort implied. Idiom, expression. But again, are the spontaneously generated copies something you don't actually do?
Like having written One and Neither itself, perhaps? Or the other book?
Are you saying you're not the author of the books?
I'm saying the words I wrote coincide with the words in them. Otherwise no, I'm not.
Who is the author then?
Whoever happened to arrange the words that coincide with the ones I wrote. Which in this case is a person who happens to be me.
All right, we'll take that as having established you're the author – if there is any book or books. You've seemed to suggest there might not be.
Did I?
Yes, when you said writing the book or books may be one of those things you don't actually do.
I see. As if there was never even so much as a book.
Not sure what ... but nonetheless that would have to be different, no? There not being any book. While who actually produced the words may not be fully verifiable – authorship can be faked and often has been – there's explicit evidence of these books', your books', existence. There's proof your books exist. We've seen it elsewhere, and there's been pages and excerpts from them in this room right there on that screen.
You're willing to accept that as proof?
Well, yes.
I see. You're accepting the books as having been written.
It's become all but inescapable.
Is that a way of saying you'd like to leave but for whatever reason cannot?
No, it isn't.
Then I'll continue. If you're accepting the books as having been written, I'm supposing you're accepting, in a similar way, this interview as being conducted. An indisputable fact. A dead cert happening right now. And a certainty despite your, our, manifestly not really being here.
Have we reached another point where it's best to move on?
We have.
Then let's leave those topics and, if we could, return to the matter of influence. Or the problem of influence as many regard it.
It isn't really a problem. I don't have any.
None?
No. None. None at all. Although if I had some I don't know what I would do with it.
It? You're saying...?
Yes. Influence. I don't have any. Which is just as well since I've no use for it.
Oh, we've crossed … a misunderstanding. The question was of influences. Those who have influenced your writing.
Influences? People?
That's right. Others who have influenced you. Other people.
I see.
[Upwards of half a minute passes without response from May.]
And if you see then, we're asking, in that sense, if you have any influences.
Do I have any influences?
Yes, that's right.
In that case none. None at all.
All right then. Another quick lane change before we bring things to an end. What, if we may ask, did you hope to accomplish with these books?
Now you're really being unkind.
Not in the least. We'd like to know. And by accomplish we mean in other than a literary sense. In general, what did you hope to achieve? To realise?
In general, nothing less than immortality.
Did you then?
Doubly, triply unkind.
Once again not at all. Please go on.
If you like. I'll explain. What I mean to say is that these books will ensure my immortality insofar as the books I wrote, and unavoidably I, will carry on being ignored for aeons and aeons and in perpetuity. Though I'll be gone, the books will always be there, in a pristine and probably unread state. They will be there until the sun becomes a dying star and there's no one left to see that distant cooling mass slowly dim before it fades completely and becomes just another spent force, detached and adrift in space. Forever, approximately. A very long time.
That's a type of immortality, one supposes.
One does.
But nonetheless, on the whole it's safe to say you're not interested in notability or renown and the like, not any time soon. Is that right?
It can be safely said.
Why not? Why wouldn't you want to be known for your books? There are worse things to be known for.
Are there?
Fair point yourself. But we think you understand. Why not be known for something you've made and that you've put your name to?
To be a name and thereafter be known beyond that name would, by a process of dilution, cheapen my existence. And let's face it it couldn't get any cheaper.
Okay, we'll have to let that one hang there for now. By that way of thinking in general though, if we understand you correctly — and along with other things you've said — it does seem you don't want readers. It seems you don't want to be read. Is that the case?
That is the case. I do not.
Why not?
Think about it. Why would anyone who's written something want it to be read? That's asking to be more unknown than you already are.
Another one to leave hanging perhaps.
Yes. Almost certainly.
We agree. But, in the meantime, and as we close things out, a question we ask all interviewees: What is your advice for aspiring young writers, and what would you recommend as required reading?
To the first question, don't be aspirational. And don't be young if possible. To the second, read whatever is listed on university course syllabi. Unless you're good at faking it come exam time. Or are attending university solely for visa reasons and need only passing marks.
Nearly there. Throughout the interview you've been evasive when it comes to your reason for writing the books, as well as for bothering to write at all. Would you like to say something more on that, or to clarify, before we conclude?
I would. Although I hesitate to say it.
Why?
Because I have to think it goes against the books themselves, that it doesn't square with the general tone and temper of them. Unlike the books as they are, my reason for writing them is rather sentimental, almost mawkish. I've written them thinking that somewhere along the way, preferably long after I'm gone, someone might happen upon the pages and for a time feel, not less alone, but a different kind of alone. Maybe a better alone. Only that. The feeling won't last of course. It will lift away and be gone soon after the last page is turned. But if for a moment this imagined reader looks up and thinks, All right then, there was someone else, one at least.... Well, I suppose if that ever happens it will be enough.
That's ... that is something.
Is it? I don't know. Could be.
Lastly, briefly sum up your view on the state of literature, long-form prose in particular.
Bookshelves sag under the weight of tomes declaiming what literature is nowadays and what makes good writing good. Most however seem intended for those true believers mentioned earlier or are something like overelaborate to-do lists for the upbeat and enterprising. But all that's of little use to people whose scribbles won't be counted among the more marketable literary wares. Melancholics, say, and the incorrigibly oblique. So it's to them I direct my summation: Think of all long-form writing as a single, drawn-out suicide note, one meant to convey what you have in mind with maximum clarity and well-modulated profundity, every sentence requiring interminable revising and reworking such that you never get around to killing yourself. A suicide note as the only thing keeping you alive.
Well then. Not an uplifting message.
No. Yet you can, conversely, think of writing as not so much a death project as a life’s work, a continual but happy toiling, something you beaver away at year after year. Although admittedly efforts will in like manner come to nothing. Until you not so much clock off as get stamped out.
It was on that cheerful thought we left R May, who at last took a seat on the sofa just as we stood to leave.
