There they were, piles of battered old notebooks, snippets of ideas, thoughts, feelings.
Adolescent ramblings, or just a random collection of words. Abandoned songs scribbled out in earnest addressed indignantly to disinterested love interests.
Some mad sketches in the margins.
The best stuff was actually quotes that I'd found amusing in my university lectures – funny stuff that, but not mine.
I couldn't say what had brought me to the empty page that day, full of expectancy. But it seemed important somehow.
With considerable effort, I began to form words in blue ink: Purple hedge rude rhinocerous.
Ridiculous, what was I playing at?
I crossed these out and tried again: Dear Sir or Madam...
Not, perhaps, the harbinger of an instant classic beginning to take shape.
I crinkled up the sheet of paper and threw it at the wastepaper basket, missing it, of course.
I picked up a crayon and drew a purple hedge rude rhinocerous. Well, at least I think I did. It's bulging eyes looked up at me with anticipation. I signed it – never know, one day it may be found and I will be lamented as one of England's undiscovered, brilliant, underground, avant-garde artists.
The rhinocerous smirked at me after I had that thought. I screwed him up and threw him at the bin too. He went in. “Ha” I said triumphantly.
I'm not even sure what an avant-garde artist is actually.