It's one of those things that people do on trains, and for want of anything better to do, I'm now one of those people. I'm stuck, of course. That stage where you can't put a number anywhere. And suddenly I'm flooded with the thought that everyone in the carriage is watching me, out of the corner of their eye or peering over my shoulder, and that they all know where the numbers go but I don't, and that they're judging me, and I still can't deduce where the nine goes but I can't give up, can't lift my eyes from the page because the Evening Standard has suggested I finish in 30 minutes and because if I didn't, everyone would know. But I'm flummoxed, and I'm getting flustered. Maybe I should pretend my pen has run out and be done with it.
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
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