Where I write:

I don’t write every day, but when I do write, I write wherever I can.

I used to work a job in the city that ran 8.30 to 7.00 and had a forty five minute commute each end. I was new to London and like everyone else I started with the Tube. Back then I lived pretty far up the line so most days I could get a seat. The first week’s commuting I sat crushed between office workers and cleaners, writing in a lined A4 pad of paper with any one of the dozen Biro’s that littered my flat.

I think best when I’m travelling; my mind is bored enough to latch on to anything, but clear enough to join the dots. I dislike writing in public though, people wonder what you’re doing, read over your shoulder, see you struggling. And anyway, even without all that that my writing turns to shit.  The train jolts and rattles along the tracks and I get home and find a pad filled with an unreadable scrawl.

I write on my Blackberry instead now. Use the notepad, type it out with my thumbs. Dialogue, notes, themes, thoughts, ideas. There’s nothing strange about a person playing on their phone, no one thinks twice. After I’m done I email it to myself. Or save it in Dropbox.

Morning

Outside

I sit cross legged by the side of the road and the others sit with me, either on the curb, like I am, or back on the pavement, leaning against the brick wall.

‘We getting the bus back?’ asks someone.

The taste of the cigarette sits in my mouth. When he speaks Sam’s voice is tight from holding in smoke, ‘Na’. He breathes out and looks round.  It was James who asked. ‘Na, we can walk. Everyone here?’ Sam looks round, ‘Who’s missing?’

Someone says ‘George and Paulo aren’t here’.

I think they might have left earlier in the night but I don’t say anything. I’d spent most of the night with them in Third Room, but after they went to the bar I lost them. Someone else, I think Henny, says ‘George?’, but James says ‘He went ages ago’.

Paulo says that Sarah and Lashes left a while ago as well. So Paulo is here.

‘Alright, so no one’s missing?’ Silence. ‘So why we sitting here?’ Sam twists his head, ‘Back to yours?’ He says this to Mark.

Mark’s like a rag doll left at the side of the road, arms on his knees, head hanging down. He nods but doesn’t speak. I can see the tarmac reflected in his sunglasses. ‘Everyone’s back to Mark’s right?’

No one speaks which means that everyone is.