In order to appease Sophie's flatmate I eventually conceded and decided that I would write a story in which nobody dies. It was harder than it sounds - a death of some sort is always a good way to add a twist to the end of a tale.

At about the same time I was also considering the best way to write a story which could be told live to a small group. These two ideas came together whilst I was sitting in a Fairport Convention gig in Burnley, early in 1997, (quite why that event catalysed my thoughts has yet to become clear) and I scrawled the title of this story on a piece of paper.

It took about three months before I finally got around to writing this piece, and at first I wasn't sure if it would have the same impact written down as it would when being read aloud. Retrospectively I think it does work, but I still intend to "perform" it one day.

For the sake of completion, you might like to know that I sent it to Sophie too late for it to make an appearance on the toilet door, but it was shown to the offended party. She didn't get it.

It's often said that the best thing about the written word is that it allows the reader the opportunity to use their imagination. There are none of the distorting values of somebody else's visual record. There is nothing but the author, the reader, their shared experiences and their combined imaginations.

With this in mind, I have written a story which offers you the chance to fill each scene with exactly the detail you conceive. My words will guide the story, and make suggestions, but in this tale it is you, the reader, who becomes the author. Every colour, shape, smell, sight and sound is left to you to fill in within your own mind's eye to create an environment which is as unique as each person sitting here today.

It was some time ago that these events took place. How long is hard to say. Maybe a year. Maybe a month. Maybe a week. Maybe just a day. I'll just leave that to your imagination.

I was travelling through a small village, enjoying the scene from the comfort of a plushly upholstered car, feeling the breeze in my hair as I cycled gently along, or taking in every element of my journey as I calmly strolled through the main village road.

The weather was, depending on your point of view, either warm and relaxing, blustery and bracing, or raining and miserable. I made my way to a nearby pub, café or restaurant, and proceeded to order a glass of cool and refreshing water, wine or lager. I'll just leave that to your imagination.

Droplets condensed onto the cold glass, turning it from transparent to translucent as I made my way to a table. The table itself might have been round, might have been square, or might have been rectangular, depending on your preference. Perhaps it was deeply stained wood, rich with the tradition of a thousand years. Perhaps it was cheap and flimsy, a mirror of the ways and means of modern life. Perhaps it was chipboard, topped with a thin lamina of plastic as its sole protection against the injustices of the world.

For that matter I don't even know where it was. Was it inside, nestled close to an open fire whose warming glow couldn't help but cheer? Was it outside, freeing me to watch the passers-by as they went about their village life, like some superior Desmond Morris or David Attenborough; detached and yet inextricably involved? Or perhaps it was between the two, in a covered area or conservatory, protecting me like a hide from the world at large, yet still letting me witness its strange rituals. I'll just leave that to your imagination.

I sat, alone with my thoughts and not a thing to distract me. I sat, a book in my hands, sharing with me the thoughts and images of a second-rate author. I sat, filling in the crossword of an old newspaper. I sat, listening to music on a personal stereo, with the volume just loud enough to annoy the other patrons. But there were no other patrons. Or maybe just a few. Or maybe the place was full.

'Do you mind if I join you?' The voice that caressed my ears was smooth and silky, with the texture of molten chocolate and equally as addictive. The voice which grated harshly against my senses was coarse and rough, like the gravelled tones of a hardened smoker, yet with a lilting quality which broke through and made the composite seem sexy and enticing. The voice was barely audible as it triggered an almost subconscious response in my synapses, like a young child hanging on its mothers coat tails and timidly admitting, 'I'm scared.'

I looked up to the source of the sound, and found a woman's face looking down. It was rounded, or maybe ovoid, or almost rectangular in shape. Her hair may have been long, short, or somewhere in between. If she even had hair. But if she did, you can bet your life that it was blonde. Or brunette. Or ginger. Or grey. Or blue, or green, or orange or any other hue or combination that you care to imagine.

Her ears were unpierced. Through each lobe hung a single earring. Except that they were spattered with more metal than a scrap merchant's. Her lips, nose and eyebrows were similarly bare, or adorned. I'll just leave that to your imagination.

Her lips were thin and pale, broad and flushed red, or somewhere in between. Her eyes were blue, brown or hazel. Her nose flared widely, or stayed narrow right to its tip. And her glasses were so perfectly matched to her face that they were barely noticeable. Or maybe they stood out like the beam from a lighthouse, cutting through all her other features to scream at my eyes for attention. Or maybe she didn't wear any.

In any event, she was beautiful. Possibly.

'Not at all, please sit down,' I said. Except for those of you who would prefer me to have dismissed her. In that case, however, you may as well stop reading now, because the rest of this story won't apply.

For those that remain, she sat opposite me, clumsily dropping into the chair, or smoothly sliding into place. She wore a long, flowing dress, lightweight skirt and top, or simple jeans and a T-shirt. Whatever she wore, her breasts were rounded and full, small and pert, or virtually non-existant. I'll just leave that to your imagination.

We talked for hours, or maybe only minutes, before she invited me to escort her back to her house. It was on the outskirts of the village, positioned right in the centre. As we walked the path to her front door I was presented with the façade of a small, large or medium sized cottage, which fitted perfectly with the general architecture of the village as a whole. Or perhaps it was a monstrosity, smothering the beauty of the surrounding stonework in a hideous blanket of sixties soullessness.

She opened the front door, which swung silently on noisily creaking hinges, depending on your point of view. I stepped in, my boots clacking on a brightly polished parque floor, or deadened by a thick weave of carpetry. We had a drink - tea or coffee, whisky or wine - before she led me up the spiral staircase which stretched out linearly along one wall. Before I knew what was happening, we were in her bedroom.

She sat rigidly beside me, or curled around me like an overly friendly cat. Or maybe she just sat on my lap, running her fingers through my hair, and twirling it into long ringlets which she teased and toyed with at length. I put my arms around her waist, or held her hand in mine, and our lips came together in a lingering and passionate kiss. Maybe.

And what happened next? Did we talk until daybreak, finding more and more in common and falling ever more in love? Did I realise it was a mistake, and leave before any more damage was done? Did we make love for seconds, minutes, or even hours? What happened next? Well, I'll just leave that to your imagination.