There is a particular place I sit at my preferred café in town. It's tucked away from general view.
I stir my cappuccino deep and fast, like beating an egg, observing how long it takes for the speckled foam continent to break from its moorings and spin like a bad CGI rendering.
The burden of notebook and pen sit before me, daring me to start writing something. Anything.
I surface read the latest charity shop book purchase as much a displacement activity as it is a discouragement to fellow café acquaintances (I'm a bit of regular) who might be seeking more than a cursory nod of recognition.
Interruptions, when they do come, are parried cordially with the book held open like a talisman and frequently glanced at, (a body language cantrip to ward off trespass while, hopefully, giving minimum offence).
Then, disconnected from the barely-noticed plot of said book, I guiltily pull the notepad towards me and brandish my pen purposefully.
Then I put the pen down and roll another cigarette.
Then I brandish my pen purposefully.
Then I put the pen behind my ear and light the cigarette.
Then I retrieve the pen and, brandishing it purposefully...
I write a load of bollocks like this.