There's a guy sat opposite me on the tube, writing in a notebook.
Another one.
I was about to be doing exactly the same thing, but now I don't feel I can.
It might feel like I'm copying. Almost as if when I chose to store my notebook in my bag along with my new writing pen, as I do every day, that I was somehow eavesdropping on this man's thoughts so as to engineer this exact moment of tandem scribbling.
I'm actually quite frustrated because it's 20 to 11 and yet again I need to have written more than I have, or, let's be honest, written.
I intended to utilise this time on the tube to full effect, scribble away to my heart's content, maybe fulfil some romantic notion akin to that which I unsuccessfully tried to pin on my previous tandem train scribbler. AKA my soulmate.
But now, those plans have been scuppered.
Instead, here I sit typing frantically on my phone, which let's be honest simply is not as impressive, or anywhere near as romantic. I mean, I could be texting.
Oh god, I just looked up and there was eye contact.
I now really want to get out my notebook to prove to him definitively that we are kindred spirits, but it's been an awkwardly long time to now suddenly produce a notebook.
I wonder what he's writing.
I mean, people probably assume I'm messaging, or typing a to-do list.
A really freaking long to-do list.
Maybe I look the forgetful type.
Or just really organised.
No, can't be that.
With a notebook and pen there is an assumed gravitas and profundity afforded to that which you scribble.
You've deemed it important enough to mark indelibly on something ergo it must be inspirational/esoteric/really bloody special.
Oh no, he's getting off. And not with me. Just the train. More's the pity.
No wait. The notebook is back open.
Does he know I'm writing, like he is writing?
He must do.
We are kindred after all.
I'm sorry maths man from day 5, it's not you, it's well, this rather beautiful gentleman scribbler currently sat opposite me. Soz.
Wait, he's getting off at my stop. Lord.
False alarm. He simply retired his notebook.
I think he may also have noticed me very nearly miss my stop as I frantically stabbed my thumbs at my phone, the Morse code of "You're writing, I'm writing, you're very attractive" practically boring through my screen.
Maybe he'll write about it.
Maybe Tandem Scribblers could be a new dating service.
Instead of swiping left or right on an uninspiring selection of badly-lit group photos you each write 50-100 words on a subject and vet the results.
The modern-day equivalent of surreptitiously peering over-the-shoulder at the notebook of your future beloved.
Sigh.
And you could use the geotargeting to potentially match with sexy tandem scribblers you happen upon in day-to-day life.
I mean, obviously it's too late for me and the Central Line scribbler, (Note to self: think of a nickname that makes him sound less like a serial killer... or underground-based sex offender) but perhaps it is my destiny to help write the happy endings of other single scribblers across the land.
How poetic.
Tl:dr Don't sexy, creative men get your creative juices flowing. Phwoar.
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