I AM NOT A NUMBER...

I'M A STATISTIC.

It's not as if I didn't see it coming. The sword of Damacles had been hovering over my head for months. So much so, in fact, that I was convinced other people could see it. I'm sure that's why no-one sat next to me on the tube. And why I always found myself in an inordinate amount of space in the pub. "Don't stand next to him, or you'll get the chop too…" I swear I could hear people whisper it under their breath. The bastards.

Still, at least I was already resigned to it when it happened. My bags were packed well in advance. I was almost looking forward to it. After all, it had happened before. It goes with the territory when you work in advertising. And we don't call it being out of work, anyway. We call it going freelance.

Don't you just love a good euphemism?

So now I'm my own boss. And it's great, really it is. I don't have to strap-hang with the rest of the rat-race every morning. I don't have to shave if I don't want to. Or wear trousers. I'm as free as a bird. I can come and go as I please. I can spend hours (thank you for the bed sores, Araucaria) on the Guardian crossword. I can play snooker on a Wednesday. Darts on a Thursday. Go fly fishing on a Friday. And I get to spend more time with my wonderful girls (when I'm not trout worrying, or missing easy reds, or forcing the chalker to reach for his tin hat).

I really couldn't be happier. If it wasn't for the appalling sense of dread that washes over me every ten minutes or so. And the lack of a salary. And the guilt…

But why waste an opportunity? This is chance I've been waiting for. At long last I've got the chance to fulfil a lifetime ambition. At last I've got the time to dedicate myself to learning proper gypsy jazz guitar.

I've invested a chunk of my redundancy money in a brand spanking new Gitane 'manouche' guitar (at least I got something out of the bastards), collected every decent tutorial book and dvd on the market, bought a whacking great 3mm pick (because the books said I had to) - and I'm ready and raring to go.

I just hadn't realised it was going to be so bloody hard.

It's hard because, every time I pick the guitar up, I feel guilty. (There it goes again.) Guilty because, in the back of my mind, I feel I really should be doing something more constructive. Something that might help me keep a roof over my family's heads. Guilty because there's a sit-com that I could be writing. And a bit of radio to finish. Guilty because I should be out networking. Guilty because I should be sending emails. And making phone calls.

It's hard because, however lax I am when it comes to networking, emailing and the like, I keep getting interrupted by the odd person offering me work. Then I have to strap-hang again for a day or two, or spend hours in my garret slaving over a hot keyboard.

And it's hard because Django's a right bastard.

I mean, I've got a machine that slows tracks down to half speed, and I still can't even hear all the notes he's hitting, let alone play them. And the sod had lost the use of two of his fingers. It's not as if I'm a novice either. I've been playing for the best part of thirty years. But you can busk the blues and rock 'n' roll - with this shit, you've got to be serious.

Still, I'm not a quitter (I usually get fired instead). I'm determined to nail it. And, I'm pleased to say, some progress is finally being made. At a snails pace, admittedly, but progress none the less. If I steel myself, stay sober (unlike playing rock 'n' roll) and concentrate like hell, with a good backing track behind me I almost sound like a Gypsy for a bar or two.

Funny thing is, things have gone topsy-turvy. Having spent years doing the usual writer's thing of finding any excuse not to write, I now find I sneak off to write instead of playing guitar.

Because it's hard.

Still, if work doesn't pick up, I'll probably find myself living in a caravan before long. Which can only add to the authenticity…