There’s a group of
four Spanish women dancing in front of Simon at Café Bombocado. The owner – a man
who looks more cartoon than German – is doing a terrible job of concealing his
arousal.
Simon doesn’t know it yet, but this man is
going to be integral to –
Simon stops his brain’s
voice over and gets back to writing his novel and sipping the white wine he
hopes will cure the hangover dimming his creativity, and his writing progress.
Simon’s writing style
had the same elasticity as a pensioner’s breasts, so, without a plan, the plot
of his novel had stretched and shrunk again. He knew it would never be
published, despite the ingenious title: Morbid
Memories Make Mad Men.
In the beginning MMMM
was the story of a man who wrote a eulogy for every one of his dead erections. So,
literally, Simon wrote hundreds of eulogies for his protagonist’s dead
erections, each one thinly veiled accounts of his own promiscuous sex life. But
MMMM would never be published, and Simon knew this, for nothing truly genius
would ever be recognised in its own time.
One of the Spanish
women falls to the floor with a flourish. It’s started raining outside. Simon
has an erection. His writer’s block, gone.
