“I need an idea for a story,” Will declared from atop his barstool.
“You’re the writer,” Andrew replied. “Think of something.”
“Can’t,” Will said, frowning into his pint of bitters. “I’ve been staring at a blank page all week, and I haven’t come up with a bloody thing.”
Andrew shrugged, his eyes drifting toward the ceiling where the accumulation of water stains was slowly building into a brown thunder-cloud of filth. “Write about a guy who can’t think of anything to write about then,” he offered.
Will’s frown deepened, and he shook his head. “Won’t work, mate. No one wants to read a story about a guy who can’t think of a story.”
“I guess you’re right and proper fucked then.”
“Come on,” Will pleaded. “You’ve got to have something.”
A grin twisted Andrew’s mouth, and he chuckled as he signaled the barman for another round. “Write about a bloke who solicits his friends for ideas.”
“Bollocks,” Andrew snorted. “The whole bleedin’ world’s gone hipster, and they love pseudo-ironic, self-referential, masturbatory shite. They’ll think it’s brilliant.”
“You’re right,” Will said after a moment’s consideration, raising his glass in mock salute. “To hipsters… and their appalling lack of taste.”