PAUL: Hello and welcome to Regrets,

I've had a few.

I'm Paul Hunter,

Artistic Director of Told by an Idiot,
and this is a podcast where I talk

to friends and colleagues, delving into
what made them the person they are today.

Hello and welcome.

My guest this month is one
of Britain's most original writers.

He operates at the intersection of science

and literature and he's consistently
uncategorisable from his wonderfully

poetic and eclectic collection of mini
narratives that make up

The Absent Therapist to his astonishing
award winning novel, Murmur.

There's no one quite like him.

Welcome, Will Eaves.

WILL: Very nice to be here.

Thank you, Paul.

PAUL: Well, it's lovely to have you join us.

And I should say I've missed our chats

down at the BFI and we were
just talking before this.

So this makes up for it in some way,
although we are recording it.

WILL: They seem so long ago, don't they?

I assume they must have been
before COVID although it is -

PAUL: definitely a strange period
when the world felt normal.

But we won't dwell on that,

we'll dwell on other things now,
obviously, I'm going to dwell largely

on your brilliant writing,
which has had a big impact on me.

But I want to start with performance,
because I know that's also something close

to your heart and in your life,
and I want to take you way back.

Do you have any memory of any very early

performance that you might have done,
whether it was in school or church?

WILL: That's a really interesting question.

I suppose that
quite a lot of my early experience

of acting and singing and playing
music was barely conscious, in a way.

I grew up in a rather sort of felt like

quite a large family, although it
probably wasn't very large for the time.

Four kids
and I shared a room with my brother,

and he was quite a very funny person,
but a real introvert.

And I was slightly different, I suppose.

And I was drawn to this piano that stood
rather uselessly in our shared bedroom.

And he had his sort of little bed with toy

soldiers on one side, and I had my kind of

rather it's almost a cot, really.

It was rather small bed on the other.

But the piano was a wonderful iron frame

instrument inherited from my grandmother,
and it had superb marketry on it,

very simple, but superb because it was all
scored and engraved in various sort

of floral patterns and it was a
Rud. Ibach Sohn piano. And I can't

remember a time when I didn't
want to sit at it and play it.

And it wasn't, I think, because I

understood really what music was or felt
that I had a musical gift, but it simply

- this sort of jaw of teeth that were
the keys invited me to lay my hands upon

them and sort of move
my fingers up and down.

So I think that's my earliest memory

of performance, and I think it
was also a bit of a refuge.

It was identifiably
mine and no one else's.

No one else wanted to play it,
no one else showed any interest.

So it was a very plausible means

of beating a retreat
from quite a loud family.

PAUL: That's a very fantastic insight into your

childhood, there. A snapshot
and that's a very clear image.

Was theatre something
that you were taken to?

Did you go as a family?

WILL: Well, I think I grew up in a time when,
rather like you, I'm sure, in the 70s.

No, we didn't go as a family to theatre,
but I was very drawn to film.

There are a lot of good black and white
films on telly in those days on BBC Two

and I sort of watched my way
pretty religiously through

the Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce
Sherlock Holmes movies and also sort

of early 1930s Universal Studios horror
movies, which were on very late at night.

And if I went to bed early, I was allowed
to then get up again and watch these.

You know, they were only about sort of 50

minutes long,
but very, although I didn't realise

at the time, very heavily
influenced by German Expression.

I loved all the shadow play.

If you're looking for a kind of trope
in 1930s film is often sort of shadows

fighting each other,
which is sort of taken straight

from Dr Caligari, which I
subsequently found out was the case.

But, you know and culminating, I suppose,
in the fantastic shadow sword fight

between Claude Rains and Basil Rathbone
in The Adventures of Robin Hood.

Yes, they come down the staircase.

So I think it was probably cinema rather

than theatre that originally
took my fancy.

But

when I did come to sort of be in school
plays and things, I can't remember a time

when it didn't feel very natural to me

to want to get on this stage and show off.

There's no way of making it sound
like anything other than it was

the need to throw one's
inner life into sharp relief.

And I think that's probably what's behind
a lot of performance for a lot

of people. Actually,
it's not so much that they consciously

want to show off, it's that
it's such a kind of sort of

necessary purge for the rest of your life,
which is so interior.

PAUL: It's very interesting coming back

to the beginning of that,
when you mentioned cinema and those films

that were shown when we were kids,
being of a similar age.

And I totally remember watching those

double bills of those,
the Universal horrors.

I also remember being obsessed

with Jimmy Cagney and the Warner Brothers
gangster movies, which were also shown.

And I don't know about you,

but I have a memory this might have been
on a Sunday evening, where

they used to show a lot of European films,
which I was far too young to watch.

And my parents brilliantly - and I think
rather neglectfully - just let me stay up.

I don't think it was anything about
broadening my mind it was just them not

being conscious
and I have a very vivid memory of seeing

Don't Look Now when I was far too young
to see it and being terrified by the blind

woman who could see
do you remember those kind of movies?

WILL: Yes, I do.

It was after the 9:30
watershed, wasn't it?

On a Sunday evening?

And you only really just
reminded me of it now.

But yeah, I do
they wouldn't be programmed now for any

number of reasons, but yeah, I mean,
the Nick Roeg films,

occasionally you got these kind of quite
new movies and I guess Don't Look Now is

1972 - 73, so it was only about five years
old by the time you were watching it.

And I'm not sure when I first saw that.

I think I saw it a bit later than that.

And I remember similarly being

it's a very scary movie and it's very
brilliantly done and there's a lot

of silence in it, unusual for the time,
not least the extraordinary sex scene,

you know, which I think
got cut out for the TV.

PAUL: It was inevitably it was removed before.

WILL: I remember I went to this sort of big

but I think in a way quite
enlightened comprehensive.

And we had a film club in the 6th form,
which was shared with all the other

schools in Bath and it was actually a real
highlight of the I think we went had

a film every two weeks or something
and I was on the committee one year

choosing films, and I
chose Don't Look Now.

And I think there must have been some
debate in the staff room about whether

this was really suitable material
for children who weren't yet 18.

But anyway, we got the film and it was

an intact edition and you
could have heard a pin drop.

Of course.

I think -
all these people were there, you know,

sort of emergent couples,
the emergent boyfriends and girlfriends

suddenly having this you're being
dropped in at the deep end.

This is how it's done, lads.

PAUL: I can imagine as you curated
that particular season when you were

on the committee that was probably one of
your hit films of that season, I imagine.

WILL: I think it was, that, and there was

another Donald Sutherland movie,
which was a terrible movie, really,

but was very enjoyable,
called Eye of the Needle, which was -

PAUL: Oh I don't know that Eye of the Needle.

WILL: It's a terrible World War II thriller set
on a sort of abandoned rock somewhere.

Kate Nelligan and Donald Sutherland.

And there's a lot of that kind of rather

unnecessary seventies and eighties female
nudity in it where people are half caught

in the threshold, they're
suddenly with nothing on.

PAUL: Well, we can move swiftly
on from that, Will.

And I suppose we talk about performance.

What about your early memories of writing?

When was writing something that you
started to do and how did it happen?

WILL: That has a very clear point of origin.

My brother was a writer
and a very good one in my memory.

I don't have much to do with him anymore.

He's quite a I mean,

I don't think I'm betraying him,
but he's quite a difficult character

and I'm sure he may think the same of me,
but he was a very good writer and he had

these series of red and black notebooks
in which he wrote,

in a marvellous kind of cursive hand
these tales of the Napoleonic wars.

And writing seemed to come to him so
naturally just flowed out of him in this

stream of sort of
wonderfully musical prose,

but accurate and witty and marvellously
shaped argument at the same time.

He was like a kind of little
education in itself.

And we went on holiday and he bought
a particular notebook abroad.

It was a grey notebook.

My mother bought it for him.

And he filled it with these extraordinary
drawings of battles and borodino and then

sort of began rewriting the story
of the Napoleonic Wars in his own voice.

And of course,
I didn't read them til much later.

All I wanted to do was sort of emulate
the the act of writing.

I didn't, I mean,

I knew I couldn't do that,
and I was I was only about seven,

so I asked for a smaller notebook
and without thinking about it,

too hard, I'd I'd read and really enjoyed
and had read to me

things like Peacock Pie by Walter de la
Mare, and again, I can't remember making

the conscious decision,
but I started writing poems.

So the first things I wrote were poems.

And I sort of filled the notebook

with these poems, and
they were full of that kind of slightly

dementing perception of the world
and freedom that you have when you don't

know what you're doing and don't
care what you're doing.

For the first time.

And one way of describing that is saying,

as Winnicott would say,
that it's pure play,

but I'm not sure that it is pure play,
because you do it quite seriously.

If you look at a child
making their first steps in an art form,

I always feel it's not quite accurate
to say they're just playing.

Play is something else.

What they're doing is

trying to be serious, actually,
even if they're writing funny stories.

It always seems to me that what a child

really wants is to be taken seriously,
and not really just as a child.

PAUL: Definitely.
WILL: And that's the problem, of course.

I think if I were a child now,

I'd find the whole kind of YA fiction
thing very difficult to handle.

I'd feel patronised,
but I know that's a minority view.

PAUL: I don't know.

It's interesting when you touch
on that idea of play, and it's something,

obviously, that lies at the heart
of our work at Told by an Idiot.

But we take the notion
of play very seriously.

I very consciously don't think there is
a contradiction in that at all.

WILL: Well, that's a good way
of putting it, isn't it?

I mean, I suppose that

what you're trying to find often is a way
of being productively disinhibited again.

Once you get past a certain point in life,

so many things crop up,
be they social or familial

or intellectual, that make you feel
you can't freewheel.

PAUL: Definitely.
It's interesting.

Obviously you touch on the notion
of the first things that you are drawn

to writing, or an expression in writing
was the poetry, which clearly has stayed

with you always in various shapes
and forms in your writing.

There's a deep sense of poetry to it

which is extraordinary, combined,
obviously with many other things.

But you then obviously went through school
and then to university,

and it, was university where
the acting thing kicked in?

WILL: I think it was.

I think I sort of did and did really
enjoy doing an English degree.

And it was marvellous to be

in a place that had such great
sort of libraries and resources.

But I think that my unofficial degree was
sort of in light entertainment, really.

I tell you a book that I'd read

at the time that made a big impression,
and I knew I was gay,

but I was in the closet and I
didn't know what to do about that.

And so it was a sort of acting was

a salutary distraction in some
ways from some of that.

I don't know if it was anxiety.

I think it was anxiety about it, really.

It was the very time that the AIDS Pandemic

had a stranglehold on activities and
I did and didn't want to be known

for myself and being someone else,
having been given permission to be someone

else, or rather to be to be oneself
in others shoes,

as Harriet Walter put it in that lovely
book she wrote "in Other People's Shoes"

was very attractive and also a very good
way of a very good way of finding out.

It would seem to me that when you act,

you take possession of something, a stage,
but you have certain guy ropes

and the guy ropes may be a script or they
may be direction, or they may be something

that you've sort of arrived at as a troop,
if it's a sort of semi improvised thing.

But it's that idea of
productively, constrained freedom

PAUL: I can totally relate to that
WILL: Is a lovely thing.

And

I think it's a very good way of sort
of for me, it's an amazingly important way

of giving myself some - giving,
actually a lot of my emotions,

some structure
when I felt the need otherwise,

this was at Cambridge,
to you know I was worried about how good

my work was, whether I was really
clever enough to be there.

Never felt that, particularly.

And I found the work challenging
and interesting, but difficult.

And so there was always
that sort of am I good enough?

Is this good enough thing?

That was going on with
the university work.

And none of that applied when you set foot

on the stage because you just
had to you step into the moment.

PAUL: Absolutely, and obviously be utterly
present, which is a key thing.

You mentioned you read a book,
but you didn't say what book.

WILL: The book was
A Liar's Autobiography by Graham Chapman,

one of the deceased members
of the Monty Python team.

PAUL: Yeah.

WILL: And to this day, he obviously had written
it with about four other people,

and it said it makes a joke of it halfway
through Barry Cryer and various other

people cobbled it together because he
was sort of half drunk most of the time.

But it is, to this day, I think,
one of the funniest books I've ever read.

Very, very good.

PAUL: I should look that up.

I like it when someone has a key book
that they've read.

And then at what point did you
decide to give acting a go?

If you sort of mean thinking,
okay, now I'm going to go.

WILL: Well.

It felt to me a very natural thing to do
once I was up and running on a stage.

I mean, I got very nervous.

I got very nervous before
every performance.

I would sort of religiously go through all

my lines the afternoon before
everything, whatever I did.

So I took it quite seriously.

I think I decided
well, you said in our sort of pre on air

exchange that you might touch
lightly on the idea of regrets.

I mean, I suppose
it's not a major regret, but

it's of some regret to me that I
didn't take the acting further.

Because what happened was I think I
got into a couple of drama schools.

Of course, I actually can't now remember

Webber Douglas was one of them,
maybe Central was the other or something.

But then, of course,
the issue of money came up

and I just didn't have any,
and my parents didn't have any,

and I'd had a grant to get through
university and I think it looked very

unlikely that I would get another to do
essentially a postgraduate course.

So it just didn't look - it was the first

time I became aware of actually there
being financial differences between me

and quite a lot of other people
who went somewhere like that.

And I don't say that in any kind of
embittered way, but it was just a fact.

PAUL: Yeah, yeah no for sure.

WILL: I'd done a lot of shows

and I felt quite at home and I think I
can't really tell what they were like.

I'm sure they were just grandiose versions
of school plays, really,

but they felt like something,

and I felt it was something I could do.

And then almost as I did it for a year

and I got my equity card,
and then almost as soon as I was doing it,

I thought, I don't think this is
going to be very easy for me to do.

And it's probably not sensible.

And I haven't got the money.

And I might not be the sort of person just

to stay at home waiting
for the phone to ring.

And there was an awful lot of you
encountered everywhere you went,

people were saying, if there's something
else you can do, you should do that.

Sorry.

To this day, I don't know whether that's
actually good advice or not, really.

PAUL: No.
It's interesting, isn't it?

Because I remember being given advice
by my sister and my mother who were very

concerned about me from going
into the world of show business

for a variety of reasons, I think majorly
because there was no context for it.

My mom was a dinner lady
and my dad was an electrician.

And this wasn't what people did
from my part of Birmingham.

But I remember being given the advice
why don't you go to university?

You're good at English,

you can get a degree and then you'll
have something to fall back on.

And I remember as an angry teenager

shouting back, if I have something
to fall back on, I will fall back on it.

WILL: Well, you were just much,

much though you probably didn't know it
at the time, I think you were much wiser.

PAUL: Well no,
WILL: it's absolutely true.

And I think that's been a huge
I mean, I still have this sense that it's

a very powerful thing with me
and in a sense, life has gone on too far

for me to quite disentangle it,
but I've had such a strong sense all

my life that I'm not quite doing
the thing I should be doing.

PAUL: Even with your writing?

WILL: Yeah, definitely.

PAUL: That's very interesting.

WILL: Because I don't know what in a sense,

I don't know what that thing
should be anymore.

And it's a source of some grief to me,
I think the thing is,

when you do something for long enough,
of course, it does become your nature.

It becomes the thing.

It's all very well going to a therapist

and saying, well, of course
it's not you, it's what you do.

But the two things become more or less

indistinguishable from each
other after a certain point.

And the fact is that in terms of artistic

production, most of it has been writing,
although only now and recently.

Absent Therapist, in a way,

gave me a chance to go back
to being an actor again.

Because I suddenly realised that the way

to solve a particular problem I had about
what do I write next?

Was simply to scour my notebooks for any

kind of likely situation,
and instead of turning it into a sort

of full scale narrative, simply to turn
the notes into monologues or vignette.

PAUL: And that's what's so
brilliant about it, Will.

That's what's so fantastic is when you
read it, and I've seen you do bits of it,

in a sense, in a performative way,
but that's what makes it so unique.

I think it grabs you in a very,
very particular way.

And maybe some of that is
from a kind of performance.

I think it is.
Even when it's words on a page.

WILL: Always love the kind of performance
that starts where you sort of dropped

in something straight away
there's next to no set up.

You're certainly in a situation,
you don't quite know why you're in it

and you don't necessarily
know who's speaking -

PAUL: Totally agree

WILL: because it's interesting,
the spectator or the reader is immediately

curious and it's
disorientating and it's funny.

And I love making people laugh.

I mean, I do have a strong memory

of saying to my friend Heather at school
what I'd actually like to be a comedian.

And whether I did really want that or
not is sort of not the point.

I think I was saying at the time something

quite true and funny enough,
I've just started doing these sort

of videos of
just out of boredom or frustration.

Again with writing,

I'm stuck with a bit of writing and so
I've started doing these sort

of characters who are some of them based
on real people, many of them not,

which are usually just
responses to things I've heard.

And they're just two minute little

versions of absent therapist
type things in different voices.

And I like the way that different personi

and different accents and different
attitudes give you a view of different

possibilities about yourself
and about other people.

And they remind you that we are aspectual,
that there's actually many different ways

of looking at the same
mountain or the same person.

PAUL: Well, that's why I think it's worth saying
for people, maybe listeners who don't know

that collection or that book,
it's very funny.

That's also why I really liked it.

WILL: Thank you.

PAUL: It really made me laugh.

Well, obviously I'm very fascinated
by comedy in terms of what we do

with the company and we often talk about
trying to inhabit the space between

laughter and pain and we find
that a very creative place to be.

And it struck me at times that

in your work I've had a similar kind
of thing where I go not to pigeonhole it,

but I felt I really like the place
that you put the reader in.

And you're very -
WILL: I'm so pleased.

I'm so pleased you think that it's
an absolutely thrilling thing to hear.

Thank you.

PAUL: Well, this brings me I suppose
it had a big effect on me, Murmur,

which obviously was an incredibly
rightfully successful book for you.

And you're very funny when you talk about
how some of your early novels didn't sell

many copies, you say yourself
and how surprised or were you surprised

that a book that is very in some ways very
experimental with its form and its style,

became an award winning
- did it surprise you?

WILL: It did.

I did feel I was flying blind a lot
of the time while I was writing it.

The only thing that guided me, actually,

rather like this business of being
on stage was a constraint guided me.

I found my way to this subject matter,

which was the later years of Alan Turing
and his sense of himself as man in pain,

suffering something that didn't fall
strictly within the purview

of the material science
to which he was so wedded.

I was wondering, so Turing is
arrested for having sex with a man.

The terms of his probation are that he

takes this organic therapy, this
punitive hormone therapy.

He grows breasts, commits suicide
two days later, two years later.

And I wondered what that sort of personal

transformation and pain would be like
for somebody who viewed the world through

the lens of third party scientific method,
who took the removal of nuance

and personal bias and opinion
from his work so seriously.

What would it be like for that,

for a person like that to feel
such exquisitely personal pain?

Would you know?
And I'm sure he was aware of the irony.

So in a way, the whole book is strung upon
a dawning sense of the horror

of that irony that all this time all his
sort of brilliance about computing

machinery, intelligence is suddenly
derailed by the personal experience

which doesn't and sort of can't
figure in his worldview.

And so the whole book is about that aspect

of the self that is never expressed by a
life and how it finds belated expression.

And maybe it is an accident or
a coincidence and maybe not.

But at the time I was writing it I was
in a lot of physical pain myself

and it suddenly struck me so forcefully
that when you are in a lot of constant

pain it's very difficult to communicate it
to other people

that your physical body won't necessarily
betray the condition you're really in.

So the writing became about that
and we've talked in this little

conversation quite a bit about the gaps
and the spaces between laughter and pain

and between presenting as one thing
and actually feeling another.

And it just seemed to me
a subject worth writing about.

And if I could get it,

if I could get to the end of it,
a subject that would interest people.

Now, I should say that it actually
wasn't at any point a bestseller, but

I kind of knew that,
or thought I knew that I was doing

something that was a worthwhile
and important experiment.

And I think that's the purest reason
for doing difficult things like that.

Not that people will like it in the end,

not that you think they'll buy it
particularly,

or that it will win an award,
but ultimately that for reasons that must

always remain mysterious,
this thing has to be done.

PAUL: I think that's brilliantly.

Well, that's very brilliantly and very

eloquently put and particularly also when
you talk about a worthwhile experiment.

And I think the sense of continuing

to experiment is really crucial,
I think, in any form.

At the weekend I was
at the William Kentridge exhibition

at the Royal Academy,
which is absolutely amazing.

WILL: Must go and see it because he's a -
PAUL: It's brilliant.

And his continual sense of exploring form

and content at the same time
in so many different ways.

And that's what I love about your work.

It's endlessly fluid in that sense.

But I can totally relate to the notion

of restriction or that, to me,
as someone who improvises a lot.

You're reliant all
the time on restrictions.

WILL: Totally.
It never comes out of nowhere.

I mean, I think the sort of great

misconception about
improvisation is that it's

sort of thoughtless spontaneity
and it's the reverse of that.

And it becomes clear
that it's the reverse.

If you think of it in musical terms,
I think then you realise that actually

there's sort of no such thing really as
improvisation in that pejorative sense,

because it's just a kind of more
immediate and present composition.

But you're drawing on everything you

already know and think about something,
and those are your grounds of knowledge

and enacting
your inhabitants of this thing that's your

body and your awareness of its
changing nature and its age.

And it's, the things it can do
and the things it can't do.

And as soon as you think of those two
things, actually, a world of emotion opens

up for you, whether you're creating
a character in the moment or whether

you're playing a character
that's been scripted.

PAUL: No, absolutely.

I totally agree with when we last chatted,

or recently chatted,
you mentioned the notion that there might

be some interest in an
adaptation of Murmur.

Is that still the case?
Or you mentioned a film possibility.

If you can't speak about it,
that's up to you.

WILL: No, I can speak about it.

Yeah.

I was commissioned to write a film
version of it, and I did that.

I duly wrote a screenplay,

and then it was felt that the screenplay
would sit better as the three part TV

series, and so I've expanded it
into a three part TV series,

and now it's felt that it's natural
forms as a single feature again.

So I've got to sort of do a third draft.

I actually really like the commissioning

producer, Seven Screen
who's who's taken this on.

I mean, you know, it's not
I'm not doing it for free,

and he's taking a real risk with it,
so I really take my hat off to him.

But at the same time,
I'm a bit nervous because I don't know how

much
once you get to your third draft or

something like that,
I'm wondering how much I have left

in the tank in terms of reinvention
of the original material.

PAUL: It's interesting.

And also,

I am fascinated because it exists so
brilliantly in the form it is, and then,

of course, I'm then intrigued to how it
could then be reinvented in another form.

WILL: It's very, very different.

It's very different.

And my hope is that it would
be visually very exciting.

PAUL: Yes.
That's immediately what I think about.

You think the opportunity for.

An extraordinary visual interpretation
of that story with the right people.

Could be.
WILL: Yeah.

I think the difficulty is that the first

two drafts I've done,
it's so out there in terms of the things

that I'm asking for, it's through composed
and you go from scene to scene and you're

never quite in the real world and you're
never quite in Alec Prior's head.

But of course, ultimately,
you have to get films funded.

PAUL: Yes.

WILL: And in a way, the question is not so much
is this well or wonderfully imagined,

as can people who are going to give you
some money read the script and immediately

see what they think
the film might look like?

Which means you have to compromise.

PAUL: Yes.

WILL: As you can imagine,
I'm not very good at this.

PAUL: Well, I look forward to continuing this

conversation about the journey
from page to the screen.

We started by talking about German
expressionism and those amazing Hollywood

movies, and now we come full circle
with maybe an audacious adapting.

That extraordinary.

And I say to all the listeners,
if you haven't read it, you must read it.

It's extraordinary.

Now, well, just before we go,
I always do this.

I ask some random questions.

You just need to say the first answer that
comes into your head requires no thought.

Here we go.
Cary Grant or James Mason?

WILL: James Mason.

PAUL: Boat to New York or the Orient Express?

WILL: The Orient Express.

PAUL: Walt Disney: Snow White or Pinocchio?

WILL: Snow White.

PAUL: On flowers: fresias or lilies?

WILL: Lilies.

The flowers of death!

PAUL: Virginia Woolf or Angela Carter?

WILL: Virginia Wolf.

But Virginia Woolf for a specific reason.

I mean, I actually love Angela Carter's
fiction, but I think Virginia Woolf's best

books, two books are The Common Reader,
volumes one and two.

Some of the best literary
criticism I've ever read.

PAUL: Right.
I will do that.

I have three more. Margate or Whitstable?

WILL: Margate.

PAUL: Lucille Ball or Goldie Hawn?

WILL: Very difficult.

Lucille Ball.

Very difficult because actually
both very good.

Lucille Ball, I think.

PAUL: And finally,
more of an existential question.

Crime or punishment?

WILL: Crime.

PAUL: Will, thank you so much.

It's been such a pleasure and so
fascinating to hear you talk about your

work and how it arrives and let's do
a non recorded social at the BFI soon.

WILL: That'll be really great.
Thank you, Paul, so much.

I'm really indebted to you.
PAUL: Not at all.

WILL: Thank you.
PAUL: Have a good evening.

Bye.
WILL: Bye.

PAUL: Dear listeners, if you've enjoyed
this podcast, please spread the word.