I began to read a greater variety of writing. Short stories weren’t pointlessly brief stories anymore — they became puzzles to unravel. We learned to read twice (once for enjoyment, and once to ask ‘how?’). After 2 or 3 weeks, I began to see that the real story was the twelve disparate characters who attended the course with me. Not one of them came from a boring 9-5 background. They all led weird and wonderful lifestyles, which resulted in us sharing stories over stale machine coffee at 9pm every Monday night. Outside, the grey London drizzle fell, and I dreamed of Buenos Aires.

The result? I didn’t keep in touch with anyone, and I didn’t even start writing fiction for another 5 years!