About 1000 years ago, I was a professional and creative writing programs director at RMIT. I had around 1500 students and 50 staff.

I’d inherited the job from a woman who was ‘gung ho’ over all things warm and fuzzy about creative writing but left her program, Professional Writing & Editing, $250k in the red with a 30 per cent student drop out rate. The Dean was about to pull the plug on it.

I hauled the program back from the edge and saved 20 jobs with the help of Neil McMasters, my Head of School at Creative Media. I was then given nine programs to run. Jesus.

I thought Neil had passed on as he hadn’t emailed for sometime – until he emailed me recently. Thank God.

I’d ride my bike to work in Carlton at 6.00am and we’d have breakfast together in Lygon Street. He lives in Germany now.

For a couple of years I battled mental health issues and he gave me good advice. When you think being an academic is more important than love and life, give it away.

Neil knew two of the programs I’d inherited were disasters. The screenwriting program was staffed by fuckwits, who spent much of their time in internecine warfare and who couldn’t teach. They were a laughing stock across the university and an embarrassment to the faculty.

The communications stream was staffed by women who thought ‘Who moved my Cheese?’ was the latest in theory. They even carried little wicker baskets.

Neil personified a good leader: endless patience and the ability to point passive aggressive staff in the right direction. He had an unfailing sense of humour and readily saw the absurd side of organisational life.

Neil wouldn’t sack people, he wouldn’t cram the classes with students and he didn’t raise student fees. In the end, he walked.

I stayed for another two hellish years amongst the spineless jellyfish and then I walked. I never looked back.

The highlight was working with Neil.