Dave took another smoke of his spliff and lay his head back onto the top of the plastic chair, relaxing more as the drug went into his blood. Trucy walked into his bedroom, blonde hair bouncing with the step, and a tear immediately fell from her eye. She had already suspected this.

“Please, Davey,” she whimpered pathetically. “You promised.”

“Look, babe, … just so happens that I write better music when I’m stoned.”

“Oh, yeah?” Trucy cried. “Then where’s your guitar? Where’s your sheets?”

“Oh, come on…”

“No, this isn’t fair on me.”

“Oh, shut up!” Dave said, throwing the nearest thing vaguely in her direction. He only heard the clunk of his girlfriend’s head hitting the wall and the scrape of her cotton dress being pulled down the wall.

That was the end of his music career. He’d only just been signed: big prospects, brilliant music (when he wasn’t stoned)… and now it was all over.