She’d been trying to write a novel for so long that she’d forgotten how little 250 words was.

‘Easy,’ he said. ‘Less is more. Anything can happen in 250 words.’

‘You’re wrong,’ she sneered. ‘250 words is nothing. Stories need to have love and death. What do you know? You don’t even write.’

‘Take the day off,’ he said.

He took her to a restaurant and ordered pasta and wine.

‘What about “I love you”?’ he suggested. ‘Three words. Speaks volumes. Leaves you 247 to get a death in.’

She sighed. ‘It’s a tired old phrase. I wouldn’t touch it.’

‘Well, how about this? The barman, there,’ he pointed, ‘is in love with the waitress. They were blissfully happy until the waiter convinced the barman she was sleeping with the pot-washer. Look how angry he is. He’s going to kill her tonight, and himself.’

‘It sounds like a soap opera plot,’ she said.

‘It’s Shakespeare! Othello, in a nutshell. In 38 words. Love and death. Every story can be boiled down to its essential elements. 250 words, you could have a go at the complete works.’

‘Joyce spent 933 pages describing a single day,’ she said.

‘Didn’t boil down,’ he said. ‘He should have come to me. We could have put Ulysses on the back of a stamp.’

They left the restaurant and set off for home.

‘Sod the competition,’ she said. ‘It’s too hard.’

She stepped off the pavement, not noticing the bus hurtling towards her.