The Writing Space

Everyone has a favourite place to write.  I have several.  One of my favourites is a pub that’s only 15 min drive from my house.  I go there for the food, and because it’s quiet on a Saturday afternoon.  This afternoon was a good a time as any to head there.  I was having one of those awful writing fuckalump moments where I can’t quite find any topic remotely interesting despite living in a world of endless possibilities.  Since I was hungry to boot, the best course of action was obvious.

Having ordered my usual insulin-tickling mochaccino and plate of hot chips, I took my favourite spot outside and made ready to pen my next award-winning post in peace and quiet. It was quiet until three motorcycle gangs turned up, including the Hells Angels.

The gang-members themselves weren’t particularly loud, but close to one hundred roaring motorcycles arriving in the space of 10 minutes is hard not to notice. It must have been a convention.  As space in the outside courtyard was rapidly diminishing, I decided to head back inside, where it would be quieter.  Once inside, I realised my mistake and headed back outside, where it was quieter.  I finished my meal, decided against tracing the interesting smoke back to its source and headed home with something to write about.

Have you ever played dominoes?  It’s a game where you pick the first of a line of 100 parked motorcycles and … collect your Darwin Award.


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