I spend an hour or so in a library from time to time, for a change of scene, to watch others nod off, pretend to work, wait for the rain to stop, and - when I'm very good - to progress a story.
Sometimes a new idea forms. Sometimes a new story presses itself on me, as when I sat at an old, battered, graffiti-ed table ...
'The things people leave behind. Traces. Lipstick on the rim of a paper cup; a piece of chewing gum; something more substantial like a painting or a poem that moves you. Or they hurt someone; or have 15 minutes of fame. 'But it’s sad; our busy lives mean that these … these vestiges of Helen and Jack and Leroy and Tracey fade so quickly. 'Why am I bothered by this ? 'Well, never mind Helen and Jack and the others, it’s Paul I’m thinking about ...'