Every once in a blue moon, those golden nuggets we scribblers rely on to metamorphose into glorious full-blown posts simply dry up. Nothing to be embarrassed about, apparently, happens all the time. There’s no shame to be had in the non-delivery of goods promised in the conjugal contract between writer and publican, is there? Of course not. In any relationship there has to be a bit of give and take, and when the give breaks down, the recipient will naturally collude with the donor in order to reach mutually acceptable ground. Or so you would think:
Me: Bro, I’ve dried up.
Nibs: Don’t worry, been through that one. Top up the tank with a Jager and you’ll be back in no time.
Me: It’s not the sauce, it’s the blog. I’m spent, can’t think of anything.
Nibs: Balls! There’s tons to write about. What about Mothers Day? And the bogs, remember?
Me: I’ve already covered the bogs.
Nibs: Then tell them that I’ve been out to Dubai. There’s a certain mystery to that, no?
Me: It depends what I tell them you did out there.
Nibs: You don’t have to spell it out. Just hint at the exotic. That’s what I pay you to do.
Me: That’s the whole point. The muse, it’s gone! I’m scraping the bottom of the barrel here. And the readers expect a certain standard. I can’t let them down now we’ve actually got a few.
Nibs: Sorry, bro, gotta go. Timmy’s done a massive shit on the carpet and we open in forty minutes. You’ll think of something…
It’s a powerful image: The last remaining morsels of my dwindling creativity being sidestepped by a cat offloading hers in the only way she knows how. So I rake through the clues in our woefully brief chat. What’s in there? What did he mean? I’m Sarah Lund without the sex appeal or the jumper. Hmmm… There must be something. Anything. And then, mercifully, it comes to me:
Me: I think I’ve got it. The cat. Dubai. He’s really trying to tell me something…
Lund: Ooets nawwt thaat simples.
Me: I think it is. He just wants me to get more relevant stuff in. What he’s doing. Timmy: She’s a pub cat. Dubai: It’s where he’s going this week. Can’t you see? It all fits.
Lund: Yaah, buüt mabee we haaf to loork further.
Me: Lund. Thank you for your help. Really, thanks. But I’m not sure how many Idle Hour punters are going to get this reference. You’re a Danish detective from the telly. I can’t believe I’m actually having this conversaton and I’m pretty sure Nibs will have something to say about it.
Me: Don’t mention it. Oh, and Timmy, you finished yet?
Me: What’s that?
Me: No shit! Bin the Dane? Focus on the pub? Ok, Timmy, you the lady.
So then, Mothers Day bookings: Sorry, dudes, all gone, all gone. Don’t shoot the messenger…