Dominic chose fourteen stone steps to sit on. They hadn’t been cleaned in a century; weathered and frost-damaged, they had taken on a patina — the greyness broken by lichens and mosses, ivy-leaved toadflax, and ryegrass. He rested his head against the iron railings and sighed.

Arthur sat thinking below him, his legs sprawled across the pavement. 

 “Once upon a time, a horse and carriage pulled up, and a well-dressed man — wearing a top hat and fine coat — disembarked and climbed these steps. He rang the bell and waited while an old butler answered the door, then handed over the hat and coat before being shown into a reception room.”

“How do you know that?” said Dominic, who lit a cigarette and looked towards the front door. There was no grandeur anymore. A glass door stood behind a padlocked gate; dirty net curtains protected the inside from prying eyes. The house was empty and unloved.

 “You only say it because you are describing something that you have seen or read. You don’t know what happened, because you weren’t here.”

Arthur picked up a piece of stone that had crumbled from one of the two pillars at the foot of the steps. He examined it before putting it inside a trouser pocket. This was something else to add to his ‘shelf of memories’. One day, when they were old men, he would pick up the piece of stone and show it to Dominic and say, “Do you remember the day we sat on those stone steps?” But he doubted that Dominic would grow old.

“My dear boy, despite your charm and privilege, you sadly lack imagination and prefer to live that shallow existence on TikTok and Instagram. Such a waste of an upbringing.”

Dominic laughed.

“And besides,” Arthur continued, “you will never become famous if you don’t contribute anything worthwhile that you can be remembered for.”

“That, my love, sounds too much like hard work,” Dominic replied. “But I envy you, Arthur, because you believe that writing those shitty little posts will turn you into a brilliant writer.”

There was a note of sarcasm in his voice, and Arthur knew that Dominic didn’t mean to be unkind.

“It is true. There are millions of tadpoles swimming in this huge pond. Why should anybody take notice of this one ordinary tadpole? But, Dominic, it’s not about being a brilliant writer. It’s about learning from mistakes — because I look back at some of the things I’ve written and cringe. But I remind myself that writing is about me, and I write for my own enjoyment.”