Prologue
Mr M sat in front of his laptop, listening to Kate Bush, and confronted by a blank screen.
“Come on,” he mumbled. “Come on. Come on. Come on.”
He touched his fingertips to the keys, hoping that by showing the universe he was ready to write that an idea would materialise in the form of words on the screen. Frustrated, he flopped back in the chair, staring out the window at a small bird building a nest in the tree outside. It was fascinating watching the little creature flying back and forth to its half-constructed home with bits of hair and fibre, weaving a sturdy dwelling for itself and its babies with its beak as its only tool.
“Come on,” he said one more time.
He closed his eyes and let the words of “Sat in Your Lap” take over his consciousness.
At some point the music see
