by Zoe Storey
At the end of my first sentence I deliberate; I'm no writer. The white space cues my guilt and I consider preparing dinner, a really great dinner with roast potatoes and gravy and toffee pudding, or tidying the house, doing the bathroom and kitchen, or at least vacuuming the dead skin dropping over this keyboard. I should really scrub up my appearance, do my hair. Paint on a smile with Natural Rose, a little gloss. If I time it properly I can do all of this, even open the door with a shiny face and an apron on, a wife and mother all contented. Only an hour left of my time and right now I stink, have wiry hair and am trying to be a writer.
Zoe Storey lives in London, and, alongside a sensible occupation, is also trying to write.