I was on the train home tonight and, after standing for part of the journey, finally got a seat at a table. The woman opposite me had a big pile of papers and a pen in front of her and, being the nosy cow I am, I glanced at them.
OOoh, I thought as I spotted double spacing, the formatting and a title*, surname** and page number in the top right hand corner, it's a novel manuscript!
I glanced at the woman. Was she an agent, an editor or a writer?
If she's an agent or an editor, I thought, trying to assess her age, maybe I'll get a little sneaky peek into the way they work.
Well she looked too young to be an agent or an editor (mid twenties tops) so I figured she was either an agent's assistant, an editor's assistant or a writer reading through her draft on the train home from work.
I'll know as soon as she starts making marks on the manuscript, I thought and pretended to read my magazine.
A couple of minutes later I snuck a peak at her from over the top of my copy of Grazia.
She was fast asleep!
And she slept all the way back to Brighton, only moving to gather up the manuscript as the train pulled into the station.
* The title didn't give anything away
** Or the surname