I’m sat in a coffee shop right now. Story of my life. There are two young guys on the table opposite me. They have to be no older than 23 years old. Matching blue jeans and grey jumpers. They look like they are about to walk into their favourite bar. Except, they aren’t.
Sometimes writing is hard. It sucks. It’s like eating. You need to be in the habit and the rhythm. If not, it goes bad very quickly.
I love food. Sometimes I question myself and wonder if I love food more than anything else in the world. I think more about food than I do about sex. I am always fantasising about my next meal.
It was getting close to midnight. I had been slowly pushing one of my mum’s earrings through my ear lobe for several hours. I was so close, yet I couldn’t bring myself to pierce through the final layers of skin. I was 13 years old. The time had come to confess to my mum what I had been doing all evening. I thought she would be mad. She wasn’t. Instead, she offered to help me finish the job.
We had stopped by the side of the road to meet some sheep. It reminded me of a time when I was at a farm with my family. It was one of those places where you could buy a paper bag of food and feed the goats. We were feeding a goat food from a paper bag and when the food was all gone, the goat ate the bag.
I said to my friends “Hey! Sheep eat paper. Let’s feed it a map!” (I think that I got confused between goats and sheep). I then proceeded to remove a page from my friend Josh’s UK atlas. We were in the middle of nowhere and there was no-one around. The only sign of human life was a couple of guys riding motorbikes a few fields over. Giggling away we tried to feed this sheep a torn bit of map. Suddenly from nowhere we hear the voice of an authoritative sounding woman from behind us: “Can I help you?”. I literally had a piece of map in my right hand pushed up against the unaccommodating mouth of a sheep.