My newly-rented small apartment was far away from the centre of London and it was becoming essential for me to find a job, so finally I spent a whole morning getting to town and putting my name down to be considered by London Transport for a job on the underground. They were looking for guards, not drivers. This suited me. I couldn’t drive a car but thought that I could probably guard a train, and perhaps continue to write my poems between stations. The writers Keats and Chekhov had been doctors. T.S. Eliot had worked in a bank and Wallace Stevens for an insurance company. I’d be a subway guard. I could see myself being cheerful, useful, a good man in a crisis. Obviously I’d be overqualified but I was willing to forget about that in return for a steady income and travel privileges — those being particularly welcome to someone living a long way from the city centre.