I do all of my writing in the local cafeneio. I call it the Caff, athough no one else does, not as far as I know. It's strange how stories come at you. You might be reading a newspaper, or walking down the street, or doing one of a million other things. But when inspiration comes calling, you grab it. That is the first rule. After that, it is entirely up to you, the writer, to make something of it.
She gave me money, just like every Friday. She did it without a word, as if it was – what do you call it – a transaction, as if she was buying something. It had nothing to do with pity, or love. She wanted me out of the house so her friends could come round, eyeliner this time, they were bringing samples. Eleftheria was in a buying mood. She called Fridays ‘Ladies’ Night’, arranged over the internet, the kids had already been packed off to their granny’s. I said nothing. Things had been tight since I got laid off. Two weeks notice, no compensation. And now that my stamps had run out there was no dole. We were living off the pension her father got.
You can read the complete story in B O D Y