I'm sitting there with yer man in the same café in town; trendy place with a novelty name, Caffeine and Busy-boots or something. I'm drinking tea. He has a glass of water in front of him, he says he doesn't drink anything hot, but I reckon he's just tight.
"So all I want you to do," he says, "is write down the stuff that happens to you."
"Like in a diary?"
"If you like. Or just take notes." He drains his glass of tap water. "Whatever."
"And you want this why?"
"I told you, I want to adapt it into some kind of narrative and make lots of money out of it."
"I know, but why me?"
"Because you're an average schlub."
"What's a schlub?"
"It's like a schmoe," he says.
"What's a schmoe?"
"A schmoe is... sort of like a schmuck, I think. Except more average."
"How about a blog?"
"No, a schlub is nothing like a blog," he says.
"No, how about if I write the stuff into a blog?"
"No, that's a woeful idea. Besides, anyone can read it then. The exclusivity is completely shot."
"Okay, not a blog," I say.
But feck it, I'm doing a blog.
