Remember that writing group I referred to recently, in one of Winchester’s coffee shops? I loved it, don’t get me wrong, but I haven’t been in a little while. To tell you the truth, work and other stuff – which you’ll find out about very soon – have been taking it out of me a little bit, and there’s the small matter of an ongoing Grand Prix season to consider too. I’d feel uncomfortable sitting at a table of writers knowing Martin Brundle was on his grid walk at home. Most of my Sunday afternoons between March and November are very antisocial.

That doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about the group, though. More specifically, I’ve been thinking about what I wrote last time I went, in the notebook Liz gave me a couple of months ago. It seems pretty apt to share with you, talking about delaying going back to things. “Describe the scene,” they said, as I reached them that morning. “Describe everything you see, hear and feel in as much detail as possible.” Believe me, that was easy enough:

“The coffee shop is alive with the thrum of conversation, and music blasts throughout, but when I enter I know what’s in store. Beyond the wall of smiles at the counter, a trio of disapproving faces awaits me. My only hope is that when I reach them, they’re distracted by their writing, too immersed to even notice my arrival – but they aren’t, and they do. And they haven’t even started, because they’ve waited for me first. Curse my lateness. Turns out I didn’t know quite how long being ‘on my way’ would take.”

Mason