The area of London called the Borough is self consciously 'cool',
very aware of its
self indeed with its assorted cafes, wine and oyster bars and the affectedly named
le pain quotodien (at least the French don't terrorise you with capital letters) where I arrive
for a 'Writers meet up.'
There is one girl there, tapping away on a computer, we exchange
a few civil introductory words.
She returns to tapping away I look out of the window at the trains shuttling by disconcertingly close they could have been time tabled for one's amusement.
More people arrive, they. all appear to have expensive computers
and in contrast to my stingy reluctance to order anything beyond a coffee they order plates of
rather mouth-watering food which is dutifully plonked down beside computers.
Surely these people must have day jobs. I marvel at the intensity with which
they set about their task, there is about half a dozen of them now and they are tapping away, like driven woodpeckers. But what is their task? To be heard, to be noted, to say something original, to say something which has not been said before, or to attain that Edens of Edens to be published?
But onwards they tap as if their veins were coursing with the heroin of self belief.
Onwards, heads lowered shoulders hunched, stalling only for the momentary intake of food; some have diaries opened, or large notebooks crammed with neatly hand written notes, I think there is a poem here, a poem about devotion, for isn't this kind of devotion theological? For God' sake is there a poet in the house? However you can only watch trains going by for so long so I pick up my freebie Evening Standard and start reading which takes about two minutes. I look around, all heads are still lowered looking at their screens I decide to leave.
The next day I look at this piece I have written and think my God the heroin coursed through my veins too, I think of last night at le pain quotidean and reflect, excuse the French, but aren't we all writers manque? Including moi.
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