"WBB tonight at eight?"
"Absolutely!"
"Cool."
Maya and I wait for Sam at the block we've nicknamed writer's block block. Rightly so, because it's wholly uninspiring and rather depressing. Buildings with peeling plaster, a glorified sand pit for a garden and flickering streetlights that are a real epileptic danger.
Sam arrives and we begin our usual drinking game. The rules are easy- everytime someone mentions a publication you've been rejected by, you take a swig of beer.
I'm three pints down when it strikes me.
"Guys, I think we've judged this block too harshly."