Just a day like any other

All good detective paperbacks start in the office, with flyspecks on the glass and a cheap booze threatening to erode its way out of the bottle on the corner of the desk. Debt collectors final demand notices are used to soak up coffee stains, and the coffee cups that caused them are so desperately in need of cleaning that it would be easier to buy new ones.

Then the blonde walks in, and suddenly the prospect of sex, financial salvation and maybe even an interesting story unfold like a tabloid in a strong breeze.

Which is of course why I am manacled in this cellar, a trickle of what might be water but smells disgusting is running down my back and as far as I can tell, financial ruin is the least of my problems.

Particularly as I can hear keys rattling in the lock.

This just popped into my head as a random beginning…

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