The writer came into the room. There was a great cheer from the audience. There was lots of backslapping and banter as the writer waited in the wings, a woman on stage raising the stakes that did not need raising. This writer didn't need a warm up gig. The audience, mostly young, couldn't wait to get their hands on him.
He took of his leather jacket. Someone was immediately there to take it from him. He licked his lips, ran a hand over his hair that was already very in place. There was a thunderous round of applause as he took the stage, set himself up at the lectern. He pulled the mike this way and that as if he was strangling a snake.
He was bigger than I had imagined. He had the build of a football player. His hair looked like cast iron. Strong, chiselled features and complete self-assurance in every move.
He didn't wait for any questions. Jumped straight in. Years of experience told him exactly what to say. The audience hung on to his every word.
Laughed in all the right places.
And sometimes laughed just a little bit too hard.