I always knew I was below-par as a writer because all of my work is sent back and for almost three years unsuccessfully submitting the same poor story of a man (always me) who used his lottery millions to ingratiate himself back in to a company of his former boss by investing in the company, with the ultimate aim of sleeping with his former boss’ wife. This could have been a good story and later on I tried writing it again, but it lacked much action outside a sordid desire for revenge for being ‘wrongfully’ sacked.

Anyway, that cold Sunday morning, I had planned to write but had a sudden bout self-doubt. Instead of sitting at my desk, I sat on the floor in submissive despair and though my flat window watched the sky and heard the birdsong outside. I guessed the world was a nice place and I wasn’t good enough to carry on my charade today, so lay in bed to listen to the outside world.

I clearly dozed, because I was awoken by a quick-paced rapping at the door.