Tomorrow's Problem

Dealing with an author can be hard. You tell us something ordinary, and we see a story waiting to happen. You mention a bad day at work, and suddenly there’s a character sitting in a canteen, nursing a cuppa and wondering where his life is heading. You describe a rainy morning, and we see an opening scene; you share an argument, and we hear dialogue; you mention a memory, and we discover a past that deserves to be explored.

That’s what authors do. We turn moments into meaning, conversations into conflict, and ordinary lives into extraordinary stories. So be careful what you tell an author, because almost anything can become a scene:

Dan lowered himself onto the battered chair in the depot canteen with all the grace of a wardrobe falling down a flight of stairs. He let out a long breath as he peeled the lid off his cuppa and stared at the steam curling upwards. Across from him, Mick looked up from his bacon butty and frowned.

“I’m glad I’m off tomorrow, me back’s been playing up all day,” Dan muttered.

Mick gave a short laugh and shook his head.

“You’re thirty-four, mate. You’re not supposed to make them noises every time you sit down yet.”

Dan grinned, though the movement sent another stab through his lower back.

The shift had been one of those proper cursed ones where everything that could go wrong had apparently got together beforehand and made a plan. A forklift battery had died before seven, two deliveries had turned up late, and somebody had somehow managed to reverse a pallet truck straight into the only printer in the building. By four o’clock, Dan had been seriously considering retraining for a career that involved a comfortable chair and absolutely no lifting.

He drained the last of his cuppa and pushed himself upright carefully. Something clicked loudly somewhere near his spine.

“Bloody hell.” Mick looked genuinely concerned.

“That’s either me back sorting itself out or me body cashing in the warranty,” Dan said. He winced and stretched a bit more.

*

The following morning he woke automatically at half five and lay there staring at the ceiling for a few seconds. No alarm. No fluorescent lights. No radio crackling away with somebody else’s disaster becoming his problem five minutes later. Just birds outside and rain tapping gently against the window.

His back still hurt. His knees weren’t exactly writing love letters to him either. His shoulder clicked when he reached for the kettle. Dan smiled anyway.

He carried his mug into the garden and lowered himself carefully into the old plastic chair. The sky above Yorkshire was its usual shade of disappointed grey, and somewhere in the distance traffic was already crawling towards the industrial estate.

Someone at work was probably asking where he’d put the delivery paperwork. Someone else was probably blaming him for the printer.

Dan took a slow sip of his cuppa and settled a little deeper into the chair.

They’d cope. They always did. The depot would still be there in the morning, along with the paperwork, the forklifts and whatever fresh disaster tomorrow decided to bring with it.

Today wasn’t his problem. He had the day off, his back had earned it. And tonight there was England in the World Cup.

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