Follow me:

“Hello. A table for..?”

Wrench mind back from phrases arrived at on the walk here. Try to look normal.

“Um. Just me. One.”

Smile. Do I look weird? No. Everything’s fine. Nonchalance. That’s the key.

Sit down. Take out computer.

“Oh, um. Just a coffee.” That I will eke out for 1hr and a half. Do not expect eye contact, after this initial exchange. You might ask if I want another and I’ll be embarrassed into saying yes, and then I’ll get a sort of caffeine sweat on.

OK. Good. Table. Chair. Lap top. Where was I? How do you rip a man’s heart out? Would you have to lever up the man’s ribs? Would blood get in your eye? Hmm

“Oh, right thanks. No, no sugar.” Smile. Don’t look weird. Shit. Angle, laptop screen down. She'll think I'm some sort of weird heart fetish weirdo. OK concentrate
So if your sword is in a man stomach, does it slice cleanly or catch? What does it smell like? Can I imagine dead Viking intestine spilling out? Um. Maybe they do black pudding. That might help.

I should have gone somewhere more hipster. I could have got inspiration from the beards. A fight on a beach between lots of beardy men.  Do hipster beards look enough like Viking beards to be of any use? How would blood stain a blond beard? Id I’d been at that place in Bermondsey, I could have gotten a hipster to dip his beard in some organic cherry and kale smoothie. Then chucked some quinoa at it to be like the sand.

I’m procrastinating. This is definitely procrastinating. I recognise the signs.

“Sorry? What did you…? To eat? Um. Have you got any granola?”

Dickhead. Cos that’s going to help you write a big scary Viking battle scene. Fucking granola. If there’s any excuse to have a fuck off big sausage sandwich with brown sauce, this has to be it. OK, concentrate. How do you rip out a man’s heart? Have I decided? Jesus. I'm actually writing some words. Woo-hoo! Look at this. My fingers are moving. Words are appearing. I'm going to make it big. This is the one, this...

“Oh, cheers. Um. No, thanks.”

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

Oh for fuck’s sake.

Crunch, crunch.
“Can I have the bill, please?”