Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

I have a new morning habit these days: writing microfiction. I take an unused title from my typically daft repertoire and use it as a prompt to generate a flash fiction. Some titles easily inspire stories and a premise quickly forms in my mind, no matter how surprising that may turn out to be. Some titles just lead to creative false starts and dead-ends. But that's the daily discipline of writing for you. What I do find invigorating is how I've been able to create interesting plots and characters within 300 words or fewer. Being someone who submits to competitions and submission callouts, it helps to have at least one option for every conceivable word limitation. I have a half dozen serviceable drabbles (100 words exactly), a couple of decent dribbles (50 words exactly) and even the occasional 10-word or 6-word tale. Mind you, I do think these latter types are too short to work as self-contained narratives and even verge on poetry, but that's just my judgement. Anyway, here

Robert Kitchener, aged 48, was tossing and turning in his bed. He was striving to hang on to his dream but she was slowly disappearing once again. He awoke with a start, banged his head on the headboard and cursed loudly. He was also acutely aware that his bladder was full so he leaped out of bed, trod on an empty vodka bottle as he did, fell over and pissed himself. His alarm clock was in full voice so he threw it at the half open bedroom door and it landed on the top step of his stairs and proceeded to bumpily but somewhat tunefully, make its way to the front door from where it kept up its tune for a further five minutes, ending with a weak squawk. Robert sat in his wet pyjamas and wept floods of tears much like other days but this day was the worst for two weeks. How could this be happening? What had happened to his life? Of course, as he told himself every day, he knew full well what had happened to his life. In just three years of forced retirement, he had become a shadow of