I waited, patiently, in line to be served a steaming takeaway cup of hot chocolate (with whip of course). The whirring noise of the machine competed with that of the room, and the noise levels as a whole increased. I stared out of the large glass windows and watched as people passed by, going about their day.
I speculated over their destinations, and wondered if the man in the hoodie and low hanging trousers was an undercover agent on assignment. Or if the lady in the red trench coat and matching heels was about to walk down the red carpet of some fancy gala.
The weather was its usual predictable self, and I took the break between showers to dash towards my car, careful not to waste a drop of my beverage. I’d queued long enough to enjoy it.
I settled into my car, and got as comfortable as I could before I pulled out my laptop. The screen lit up and I opened a new document, ready to write as much as I could in the space that I had.
My time wasn’t ever wasted, and every minute I had to myself I’d write. I couldn’t have chosen a better profession; who else could say their work was as portable as mine? Whether I waited for an appointment, or in the car on my taxi duties, I’d pack my life into one bag and write. I didn’t need anything else, just my laptop, notebook and pen. The basics.
The temperature dropped in the car, and the windows fogged up as condensation crept its way across. I felt cocooned in my own little writing bubble; the world was on one side, and my world the other. Nothing could compare with the joy and freedom of letting my mind run, the make-belief and fairytales concocted from living in a controlled environment. Nobody could stop me from living my dream, when it was one I lived every day.
I was born to write. You’ll see.