Robert McNeil: Wit's end

WHY gossip and procrastinate at work when you can garden instead?

I was driving in the city at twenty to nine in the morning. It wasn't even the city centre, but the suburbs, though the main road near us is reasonably busy. The experience was strange. There were queues of miserable-looking people at the bus stops. The standard of driving was even worse than usual, as everyone was both half-asleep and in a hurry.

"What is this all about?" I asked the Burd, whom I was chauffeuring to an appointment.

"This is what is known as the real world," she explained.

"But I don't like it," I whined, like a child.

It's true. The real world? I can't be doing with that sort of thing. I was relieved to get home – my place of work – where I checked the progress of my recently planted phlox, made a cup of coffee and started writing. After three beautifully crafted words, I stopped and went into a daydream. I wonder what it would be like to be working in an office, even a newsroom, again.

The very thought almost made me stop breathing. How does anybody ever get any work done in these places? In the hoose, I can check and reply to e-mails, read the news on various media websites, peruse a couple of football ones, examine the wares of a shop that sells cowboy-style checked shirts, and get started on my scribbles, all before I'd even switched my computer on at work.

Some days, I'd just be getting off the bus. Then I'd get in, switch my computer on, walk several miles for a coffee, meet colleagues, yak-yak, gossip-gossip, then walk several miles back, sit at my desk, check my e-mails, yak-yak, gossip-gossip, flirt-flirt (not me, you understand; the burdz), walk several miles to the lavatory – and several miles back – and, eventually, late in the afternoon, sit down to write something in the occasional two-minute breaks between interruptions.

Fact: offices are not efficient places in which to work. There are too many distractions and, while the air of solidarity can help, particularly in this nutter-haunted business, ultimately, for the good of the scribbling, you're better out than in – if you can cope with the loneliness at home.

People often ask me about this and, yes, it can be a trial. Sometimes, I go for days without speaking to another soul. It's then that the birds and plants earn their pay, for I spend ages asking them how they are doing and where they plan to go for their holidays. When I do meet actual people, sometimes I find I've forgotten how to speak, and my first words have to squeeze out past a giant frog in my throat. Then I babble disproportionately to the occasion.

Picture the poor postman hurrying up the road, trying to get on with his round after visiting my house, and me chasing behind, shouting: "Come back! I haven't finished speaking to you yet! Did I tell you about the snails eating my marigolds? What do you think of the economy? Do you prefer your oven chips straight or crinkle-cut?"

The garden is a godsend. Most days, I get up and sit unwashed at my desk. After a while, I feel my legs stiff, and I think: "Good lord, I haven't breathed any fresh air nor even stretched a limb yet." Then I nip out the back and pull a few weeds, check the birds have their feed, do some tai chi, and put down lion dung pellets to scare off the cats who use the place as a toilet and try to kill everything.

At other times, I just tootle round the leafy suburbs for 20 minutes, indulging my love of suburban architecture, particularly when it's built of solid Edinburgh stone. Of course, the casual observer might think this is skiving. But it all keeps me healthy, ensuring the brain is well-oiled and the limbs limber.

So, one returns refreshed for a new bout of scribbling whereas, in the office, one felt obliged to sit there constantly, even if you'd nothing to do. In news, of course, anything might come up at any second, so it doesn't do to wander off. "There's a big fire in East Lothian! We need a reporter! Where's McWhortleberry?"

"He's on the lower slopes of Arthur's Seat, sir, admiring the pink-headed stickies. That's a flower, sir."

Working from home, if I fancy a longer break, usually mid-afternoon (when my brain doesn't work), I stravaig up my beloved Blackford Hill, though I've neglected it of late, as it always seems awfully busy these days. Also, I've been frightened of going back since that UFO incident was reported in the papers. I don't want to be taken away into ooter space and poked with probes. Not when I've a deadline to meet.