It’s 10am, on a Thursday. I am sitting in a coffee shop. It’s cold, but dry.
In this coffee shop is a man sprawled out, reading the newspapers. I swear he has slippers on. He tuts occasionally at the state of the word, then just turns the page over. There is another man in a suit, tapping away at his laptop and looking up, anxiously but hopefully, every time the door opens. I think he is slightly short sighted, because it takes him a moment to realise the person entering is not the one he is waiting for.
In the corner are two women with babies in pushchairs. They are trying to talk, but are constantly distracted by the fact that their children are actively trying to kill each other. Over there, at the sofa, is a girl in a bobble cap, writing away in a notebook. She looks very intense, but very happy. Near her is a handsome man typing into a laptop, but he keeps getting distracted, and looking round the room.
And in the corner there’s me, writing this, and spying on them all.
There’s more than enough material for a few short stories here, maybe even a book. What we need for our tales is all around us. There’s a story in every place. All we have to do is find them, imagine them, and write them down.