I wasn’t even trying to be a writer at that point, but I’d been working with homeless people in London for a year after I’d left the university from studying my first course. And I thought, “Well, it’d be very nice to do a postgraduate degree.” And I applied to a number of things. That just happened to be the creative writing one. I just came across it almost by chance, and it said that instead of a scholarly thesis, I had to just submit a work of fiction of only 30 pages. So I thought, “Well, this sounds like a much easier task.” But of course, when I got accepted, I started to panic. I thought everybody was, you know — I was going to meet a lot of brilliant, genius, budding writers, and I didn’t have a clue how to do this. And I had been accepted on the strength of a radio drama I had written. So I did actually rather panic. And the summer before I went to the University of East Anglia, I locked myself up in a cottage in the middle of nowhere in the west of England, in Cornwall, in a very remote part of Cornwall. And for four weeks, I just wrote and wrote and wrote. I hardly saw anybody else. And I kind of learned to write.