Short stories about tall women.

There are few meaningful occupations that can be successfully pursued in a bar unless you work in one.

Mine I think is an exception; I can sit at a table with a ginger beer and a notebook. When I'm not writing I'm probably thinking about writing, or watching.

Quite a lot of material comes that way, walks right up to my table and sits down:

'What do you write'?

I'd looked up from my notebook, she was sitting opposite me. I said: 'Short stories about tall women'.

'Are you going to write about me?'

She had good hands, long slender fingers; the hands of a tall woman. 'Bits of you'.

'Which bits'?

'So far your hands'. I looked at her eyes then. She held my gaze, imprisoned it.

She said: 'You'll write about my eyes too. Can I read it when it is done'.

'Certainly'. I replied, where will I find you'?

'Oh, I'll wait here until you've finished'.

'I may take many years to complete it. I may never complete it'.

'That's ok... I'll wait'.