Green

Sitting in the park yesterday, avoiding the footballs and stray dogs flying in my direction, I tried to write.

I have a PDA I carry around with me complete with a wireless keyboard, so that if I write away from my computer, I can actually edit and reuse my creations later on without hiring a cryptographer to translate my handwriting. And so with the keyboard resting on the bag, which in turn was resting on my lap, I spent 30 minutes typing away in the green.

Undoubtedly I look like a ponce when I do this. Dressed in my office clothes, squinting at the tiny screen and tapping away on the wireless keyboard, I must look like a junior businessman trying to get a promotion so I can buy a real laptop, or, worse still, like a loner English student.

But lost in the thrill of the sloppily written word, and letting the heavenly rays of global warming tan my skin, I hammered away. And it was then that I found 20p lying on the floor.

Now I appreciate that some of you may not have the same dreams as me and may need some clarification as to the ramifications, the life changing, celebrity making, orgasm inducing ramifications, that this brought about. So let me explain.

I was writing. and I got money. Therefore, I am a paid writer!

Finally after all my years of thinking about maybe one day trying to work my way towards getting the chance to be considered for the option of being paid to write, it just happened to me in the middle of a lawn on a armageddonly warm April day.

I picked it up, thrilled that my dreams had come true so easily, and went to add it to my stash, because of course being a paid author I was incredibly poor and saving every penny. On opening my wallet however, I got the shock of my life; the change pocket was already open; some of my money must have fallen out. And yes, the 20p that had been in there earlier had disappeared.

It was my money I’d found. My own cash. No-one was paying me to write, I was merely a self-invested, self-absorbed, and worse still, self-published writer.

I couldn’t even call myself an ‘author.’

Drying my eyes, calming my breathing, and manipulating my painfully red limbs into movement, I gathered my loose silver together and brought a can of beer to help ease my woes.

Because at least then, like all real writers, I could say I wasted my royalties on booze.

Recent Broken Dreams

• My failure to look sexy naked
• Losing my DICE
• Not pulling the sexy French Maid

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