Every Wednesday I take the number twelve bus to the city. I alight at the corner of Brown and George and go into the cafe there. Its called Masons. I don't know why. The lady who runs it is Rhonda Day - no "Mason" in sight. I've never bothered to ask about the name. I will next time I see her. Anyway, I go in there and sit at the same spot right by the front window. You get a bit of pedestrian traffic because it's also near the door but I've got so used to that now I don't even notice it. What I like about this spot is the light. It's beautiful because of the big window looking onto the street. I don't even need to order any more. I just sit down and start writing and they bring my long black to me. What do I write about? Anything. I don't decide in advance. I literally just write whatever comes to me, moment by moment. What do I do with what I've written? Mostly nothing. But occasionally I write something that becomes a poem or short story or something else. The spot by the window isn't where I create the work, it's where I find the seeds that become the work. Couldn't I just do this at home and save the bus fare? Possibly. Probably. No.