The Terrifying Aspect of Blankness, or The Random Adventures of Mr Protagonist

BARDING - 02/11/2017

There is nothing more terrifying than a blank page. Oh, there are those who say a blank page is full of opportunity and possibility and potentiality, that it could turn into a wonderful novel, or a secret love letter, or a work of art, or an invite to a party, or a sublime poem, or a paper aeroplane, or a shopping list... in fact, the list of possibilities is endless, they say. That's all well and good, but when the page is supposed to contain directions to the most important meeting of your life and it is, instead, just an example of abstract expressionism of jizz on snow, a terror grips your bowels and twists.

This was not the sort of start that leads to a good day.

I had no idea where the meeting was, or what time it would be, or who it would be with, or what would be discussed, or if I was supposed to receive anything, so I had no idea where to start looking. I didn't even know who had left this blank sheet of paper on my coffee table, it had just appeared while I was distracted searching the sugar packets for clues to the crossword. I glanced frantically around the cafe, trying to determine who the mysterious courier had been, maybe to chase him or her or zer down and wave the blank page at them, insist there had been a mistake and beg for the correct page, the page full of directions.

No-one appeared perturbed or suspicious. Everyone avoided my gaze, but that was normal, and no-one was hurrying away or lurking behind a faux-Italian column trying to remain unseen. Or if they were, they were very good at it. There was the gaggle of students colonising the corner tables, young and attractive and animated about whatever amazing knowledge they were distilling from course notes - their faces changed, but the homogenous mass they made remained the same. The single mother hunched over a cheap laptop and expensive frappe, eyes wide with the hope of becoming a billionaire children's novelist. Old Stumpy, who only drank black tea with honey and hawked with contempt at anyone who drank "new-fangled mud water". Sven the barrister was his normal surly self, as was Candice the server. Everyone called her Candy, but she hates that so I call her Candice. She's very amiable and nice to me, because she's very amiable and nice to everyone - that's her job.

A cafe full of regulars.

I went to scrunch the blank page of paper up but my hands froze before any creases were made. It had occurred to my subconscious a few seconds before it occurred to me that the paper itself might be a clue. More than just a meta concept intended to point the way to the puzzle's solution, the paper might have things written in it on invisible ink, or be made of a particular fibre that can only be bought in a particular shop in a back-alley next to the shady side of town. I couldn't take the risk, so I carefully lay the paper on the table, clear of the wet ring forming around my peppermint mocha frappe with a double-shot of absinthe. So if you were wondering why I trek so far to sip in such a distressingly trendy cafe, now you know. You thought it was Candice, right? No, that's just why I came I the first time. It's the absinthe that keeps me coming back.

I sipped slush through a straw and wormwood hit the back of my throat. Outside of my window, in the no-mans land on the pavement in front of the narrow brick wall between the cafe and the specialised leather-goods store next door, stood a busker. This modern day bard was playing a lute, half ukulele half bowl, a pretentious anachronism clearly intended to impress and importune passers-by. The lute was supported by a shabby tunic covered in large, colourful, and completely unnecessary patches, home-made pants tucked into soft leather boots, and a knitted beanie with a cap peak. Red and green dominated the outfit. This was not the sort of man you'd forget, and I idly wondered if ensuring he was so well-remembered worked for or against the busking bard of the brickwork.

He was so distinctive I knew that I had never seen him plucking his strings before, and as I sipped my peppermint absinthe and gazed deep into the white of the paper, that certain fact inveigled its way into my mind and refused to leave, no matter how many times it was politely shown the door. Could it be a coincidence that on the very day - nay, the very moment - an unnoticeable courier leaves a quizzical blank sheet of paper as the entirety of my directions such an oddly memorable busker would fill his soft leather boots directly in front of my cafe? I pondered the probability - we could take the moment of the leaving of the paper as fixed, in which case the location of his busking would be the variable. There are a large but finite number of places he could busk, and with no idea of how he chose which location to loiter in I would have to assume an even probability for all of those places. I considered buying a road atlas to get an idea of how many possible busking locations there are around here, but then figured I could safely just call the probability one in hundreds, probably thousands. A huge coincidence, then, and one which should be immediately and assiduously examined.