WRITERS Part I

Bloggiana has a new grumble. She says nowadays there are far too many writers about. Take the other day, for example, she says. I am coming back from London on the train, minding my own business, peering into the middle distance, occasionally staring in awe at the man opposite while he negotiates the dubious pleasures of a tuna sandwich that is roughly the size of an Alice-in-Wonderland bungalow.

Then, she says, as we reach halfway point or so on the the west coast line, a man comes and sits facing away from me on the other side of the aisle. He looks distinctly like a junior car showroom executive and has a curious breathing habit which causes more than one of my fellow passengers to ask if there is a problem with the air conditioning.

Imagine my surprise, continues Bloggiana, when the man pulls out of his bag not the Morning Star or the People-Carrier Monthly, not a nasal drug delivery device or even a packet of tissues. But a laptop. And begins typing. Naturally, I go from standby to red-alert, she says. I peer over his shoulder (long-sighted, thankfully) and see that he is typing a script. Death and the Hairdresser. By Scrip Triter. Now I am gripped. I text the name to a brand new friend who I know is online. I ask is he a playwright? BNF says not only that, he’s an actor. He’s had a walk-on part in Emmerdale and comes from Blackpool.

Even more gripping. So I continue my stalking of Scrip, says Bloggiana, and watch for an hour or two as he painfully, laboriously transcribes his text using just his index fingers. The breathing is mesmeric, loud but rhythmic happily and I nearly relapse into hibernate mode, she admits, watching the birth/death of the hairdresser which seems to involve someone called Wiggie and dialogue sentences that look a trifle long for my money.

But horror of horrors, as Warrington Bank Quay becomes little more than a memory, Scrip's laptop screen goes blank - except for the words Fatal Disk Error which glint menacingly out of the winking blue. Bloggiana watches Scrip bring his hands to his head. She listens as the breathing reaches new crescendi. She thinks she hears swearwords or at least imprecations to the god of all things IT. She finds herself feeling sorry for Scrip and is almost ready to brave the breathing and offer her services, such as they are.

Happily before I do anything quite so reckless, breezes Bloggiana, the prayers or the wheezing or the close-lid-open-lid strategy take effect and everything is up and running again. And this is when I see Scrip’s screensaver, she announces. Did he write Truth or Dare? she texts brand new friend. Friend comes back, not only did he write it, he starred in it. He played the lead role. No, she says. Friend goes quiet again, then texts back more. Friend has found Truth or Dare review. In which reviewer said he would rather spend 90 minutes chewing his toenails than watching Truth or Dare. Friend goes quiet again, then comes back with the coup de grace. Turns out Scrip is new to acting and writing. Turns out he spent 25 years in the second hand car industry.

Bloggiana says she thanks friend and he logs off, just in time for his next class in Creative Writing Studies.