I get ideas in the morning. I wake with them. They line up like alert old ladies at a bus qeue and wait for me to arrive. So I wake with the wheels turning but by mid morning they’re still waiting and with no A to Z my bus is whizzing along a dual carraigeway called
E mail Street turning right onto commision road. I spent a long time on Things To Do Avenue which reminded me to make repeated calls on Cell Phone Street and a drive down the way called Answer Machine Avenue. In no time I’m lost. I spend hours hurtling up and down these streets at my office ( a real place) and before you know it, it’s mid afternoon and I’m racing to the train station to go to Huddersfield ( a real place to).
By now the old alert ladies have trotted back to their apartments to stand behind net curtains. That’s what they do. they give me the lines as a bus ticket and we drive to a town called Poem while they sit in their seats and talk very very loudly. “Her eyes are the widows to her soul”. That’s one I woke up with once. But the old lady is still her behind the window saying “Do something with that” . I am angry with them for not waiting at the bus stop. They’re angry with me for not picking them up. The difference between a writer and someon who has great ideas is that a writer, writes. Huddersfield here I come.