I'm guessing somebody's lip is feelin' pretty cold right about now.

Just start typin’ is what they said to me, and the words will begin to flow.

But they were very, very wrong. The words didn’t come at all.

Well, sure, words like ‘vestibule’ and ‘drizzled with a balsamic extract’ made an appearance, but there was no context at all.

I was stumped. Adrift. Without a shred of inspiration.

But I kept at it. Typing, typing, typing until my little fingers ached.

And still. Nothing. Nothing of worth. Nothing of note.

‘Buy bread and milk,’ I typed. Useful, but not really what I would call compelling prose.

‘Somebody keeps hitting my keys,’ I added a bit later. But that was strictly from the typewriter’s perspective, and that is a limited audience I am quite sure.

Then I started thinking about the giants of literature. Did they ever experience a dry spell, when nothing of worth came forth from their quill, pen or keyboard? I looked to see what I had typed in response. “Xasdfalsaf difaff.”

Eventually, I gave up and went to the kitchen to seek a snack and escape the tyranny of the typewriter.

And yet, as I stood in the dim light of the kitchen, crunching a dry piece of unbuttered toast and feeling each lumpy, scratchy bite slide sullenly down my gullet, I could still hear the clacking of the keys carried on the still, uninspiring air of post-midnight desperation.

How can this be? I asked myself as I strode out of the kitchen.

And there I saw, hunched over the diabolical machine, my very self, still typing away, producing a fetid string of worthless words even as I watched myself with a surprising lack of surprise.

So, you’ve gone mad at last, I muttered to myself, and from the desk other I turned to glare at me with an ugly grimace.

‘Shhh!’ I said to myself, momentarily raising a single finger to my lips before quickly returning to the keys.

Clack clack clack clack when the levers, banging sharply into the ribbon to imprint the component letters of the words I was now apparently inspired to type with increasing speed and certainty.

Hmnn, I thought to myself. I guess I should call it a night.

As I shuffled off to bed, I paused a moment to look back at myself, working diligently away.

“Hope I come up with something half decent.”

As I dropped onto the bed and closed my weary eyes, I sighed.

“I have my doubts.”