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I’m embroiled in the classic search for a lucrative niche to feed my urge to play; a path that merges fantasy and reality, that allows determination to trump desire.

The online writing world also lets me know I am not alone in this search. I’m one of millions. The challenge is to write on regardless. Thankfully that’s the one thing I can do.

Summer. Scorched days and hot muggy sleepless nights. You know the kind. You toss and turn; the bed is either too hot or too cold. The air is heavy. You’re too restless to read. The television shows re-runs you’ve seen. Frustration mounts as tiredness mauls every thought but sleep refuses to come.

August has been one long sleepless night.

The agony began in July when I took up working in a clothes shop. In my humble opinion shopping has to be one of the most pointless activities in the world. Granted people need clothes and in order to get them they must shop. But I’ve never understood the appeal of spending hours roaming large crowded wardrobes that stink of stolen ideas and fake ideals.

The fact is people, strike that, women love to shop. And it’s hilarious to watch. The girls come in. They touch, compare, try on and marvel. They grab, question, hustle and demand. Common decency goes out the window. Clothes shops are to women what strip clubs are to men. Home turf. They know what they like and when they see it, they have to have it. Their immediate gratification depends on it.

The men who come into the shop are the cutest. They come in with their wives or girlfriends or they come in with a friend to buy a present for a girlfriend. They are always polite, extra polite due to discomfort or boredom. But at the key moment the credit card appears and with little more than a swipe they make some dame happy. Visa romance.