200

“It’s not more meta-literary bollocks is it?” Pitched to frustrate, her voice hailed from within a bastion of diced vegetables. Our hero sighed, another precious seed lost to confusion.
“No.” A lie.
“They’re all the same, you know.” A chunk of carrot was sacrificed to her maw, mid-sentence.
“You got enough?”
“Nope. Freezing some.” Still chewing, this bourgeois barbarian momentarily became his nexus of loathing. The soup phase was lasting, much to his chagrin.
“Why don’t you make it a thriller or something? Some deaths, conspiracies, stuff you can engage with.”
“That’s not the point...”
“Isn’t it?” She resumed chopping with faux innocence, devouring celery this time.
Too angry to write, he turned round. “It’s not that bloody simple and you know it. You know crash bang wallop doesn’t satisfy.”
“Sells though, doesn’t it.” Her sweetest smile (the ’97 vintage) beamed out at him.
Fuming, he span back to his desk. She loosed a snort of derision across no man’s land.
Then inspiration descended and he scribbled furiously, of friends in need. The phone rang, he smiled, she answered.
“It’s Janey love, she sounds upset. I’m off out.” The door clicked, and that easily he was alone.
Now, let’s begin...