That horrifying moment when you’re working from the coffee shop (or, let’s be honest, the pub), and you nip to the bar to get a top up, and you leave your stuff on the table because, you know, you trust that people are generally good and honest, but more to the point you can still see the table and besides you’re also between the table and the door, so that if anyone grabs the laptop you’ve got a comfortable amount of time before they run past to position yourself to tackle them to the ground before the even get near the outside.

And you take your drink gratefully from the bartender. Or barista, perhaps. And you amble back to the table, basking in the glow of the general honesty of humanity, and feeling warm and fuzzy in the way toddlers do when they’re cuddling their toy dinosaurs. And you sit to write, but then you realise you need the loo.

And now you’re sitting in the stall, trying to go as fast as you can because you’re convinced that the old boy at the back has been eyeing your kit for hours, and now is his time to strike. He’s downed his pint, wiped the froth from his grizzled chops, and has snatched the laptop, the expensive laptop that you bought with the advance on the work that’s currently sitting on it, and he’s working his way to the door, furiously shuffling, the laptop in one hand, walking cane in the other. And so you pinch it off and wash hands and burst forth from the gents.

And the old boy is, indeed, gone. And the table is empty.

It’s fucking empty.

You’re unsure whether to laugh or cry, slightly stunned by the accuracy of your deepest paranoia, are you perhaps psychic? The table is clear. Everything has gone. Jacket, laptop, backpack, even the drink you just got. They’ve even changed the flowers.

And then you notice you were looking at the wrong table, and your stuff is still there, and the old boy is standing next to you, looking like he’s about to pee himself.

You jump, startled.

“Excuse me”, he says, motioning to the loo. “But are you finished? I’ve been waiting…”.