It is 9.30am. I am not awake but my phone is – and thus the cracked Samsung takes the call from my agent. Would I like to write a column? There are legions of journalism students and English graduates who would kill for this opportunity, but as the UK’s most besmirched celebrity ex-ice dancer, inevitably this request has headed my way.
If I can just rustle together 1,000 words by mid-afternoon, I might almost be able to afford the Lego Grand Piano (with automated “real” piano sound) that a year’s unemployment has kept from me.
As my digital horcrux relays this opportunity, my internal scribe erupts, sweeps empty glass bottles from an imagined desk and shouts, “I just need two cups of strong tea and an idea. Leave it with me.” That plastic potential pianoforte is as good as mine.
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