I think these electric shock treatments are beginning to have an effect. Yesterday I dreamed that I was driving down to Reading to try and locate the Reading Museum which – according to a website – had within its archives a cache of recreation club and sports team papers from the local employer of my subject, some of which might conceivably be relevant. For want of anything better to do [the book is writ] I thought I might as well take as look, just out of interest and in case, and so had rung the previous day to check the form and been assured there was no need for an appointment: I could just turn up & do the business.

Things are never quite that simple of course. When I presented myself at the reception desk towards lunchtime, after a bit of fussing about, I was eventually handed a telephone receiver and informed by the curator from his office that my previous understanding had been wrong. Appointments (and indeed the exact nature of the enquiry) were absolutely required in advance because said collection of papers ran to approximately 150,000 pages in total, a good proportion of which were housed offsite at the University of Reading anyway. So in one sense this was an entirely wasted journey.

But not in others. Driving down the M4 I had the opportunity, with my ever-constant companion Radio Five Live playing in the background, to spend some time thinking through various aspects of my book – not so much the writing or researching, rather [regarding it simply as a product] its publishing & marketing, albeit without reaching any life-changing conclusions. Then out of the blue I had a call from a local radio reporter in response to mine to his employer last week seeking to obtain a copy of the programme he had made on my subject (broadcast on Remembrance Sunday). He was calling to discover my purpose. I explained that I had recently had lunch with one of the subject’s descendants (extended-family-wise) and had promised to try and get her a copy. He seemed pleased when I complimented him on the piece but somewhat disappointed when I told him I’d written a new biography … he said he’d agreed with one of his contributors that there was definitely one to be written and had since toyed with the idea of attempting one himself.

Such things keep me going. Over the past year three different publishers have turned down my treatment – each citing the fact sports books generally don’t sell many copies; that, within that subset, the sport concerned is (volume-wise) only of minority interest; and that a biography of a player from the Edwardian era is of minority interest within that minority: it would be lucky to sell 500 copies and therefore wasn’t a commercial proposition. I have a different viewpoint. The story is a good one and worth the re-telling. It might indeed only sell 500 copies [which from my perspective would still make it worthwhile anyway] but, set against the background of the approaching First World War centenary, it might well sell several times that in total over the next decade.

Separately it is now almost a fortnight since I deposited a copy of my final draft with the latest publisher who said he’d read it and so far I have yet to receive an acknowledgement, let alone an initial reaction. I’ll give him a blast towards the end of the week. Knowing the ways of the world as I do, he probably has yet to get past the front cover … and/or, just as likely, my masterpiece is now residing in some far-flung corner of his office, hidden under a pile of discarded fast-food cartons.