Imagining writing spaces – both bad and good

He is on the Tube, somewhere in the middle of the Northern Line. It’s around 8.45 am and it’s heaving. He sits on the bench seats, not able to move his elbows without tutting from those either side of him, a plasterer with a massive nylon holdall at his feet and a prim lady who looks disapprovingly at just about everyone. He has his notebook out, held awkwardly so as not to reveal its’ contents. He can’t write anything.
Everyone has gone out. He’s made a cup of liquorice tea and sits at the computer. He selects something mellow to listen to from his impressive music library. The sun shines into the room and he feels good. He can write now.

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