Jane and I sat supping hot chocolate in Wang’s bar while the sky grew heavy and finally unable to support its load rained down. Our conversation wended this way and that, Wang came to check on us when we began cackling out loud and as I turned my head back to the window the most beautiful rainbow appeared. All seven colours shone out brilliantly from behind the Eiffel Tower, while under my nose a hunched up old lady in a green coat shuffled in with two of the most pathetic attempts at the canine species I had ever seen. Wang efficient as ever appeared behind her with her cup of tea and I watched with mild amusement as the dogs weaved their way between her legs and the table and the bench until I almost believed they would make a cat’s cradle or knock the poor dear down. But she was wise to their wily ways and dropped the leads and scooped them up onto little cushions she had made for each of them with her coat and bag. Meanwhile our conversation had waned as Jane rooted in her bag for the change necessary to pay for our drinks. Jane sniffled and said: “You’re probably going to write about her one day.”
Skint’s back and asking us to write about what it means to be a writer. As a writer I sit in front of an empty space and wonder how to fill it. As a writer I observe. As a writer I take my palette of language, experiences and observations and try to write a picture.