THE CREATIVE CLASS

'You should avoid starting a story with dialogue!' said the Creative Writing lecturer, reading from his notes to his freshman class.

'Neither should you use exclamation points, clichés. And,' he continued, ignoring several raised hands, 'you should never start a sentence with and. Or end one with butt.'

Just then, in Dakota University, as in all other all-American educational institutions, no sooner had the class begun than  the bell went off. Each Hollywood academic hour lasts on average 37.5 seconds, making it possible to complete a whole term's course work in one afternoon, which, of course, only brainiacs and nerds do. The tutor's words trail off as the freshmen students instantly collect all their gear and vacate the room with indecent haste, as though their very popularity rating depended on it.

Only the most attractive and most famous member of the class stays behind. She is worried about the only two things she is ever concerned about: her low grade average and not being the most popular girl in the school, despite her telegenic strawberry blonde looks.

' "What are you looking at me for. I didn't come to stay," ' is the first line of Maya Angelou's I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings. And you said you oughtn'ta..'.

'Yes, I know what I said. And when you're as vibrantly colloquial as Ms Angelou is, then you too can start stories with dialogue. Until then, it's probably better not too, that's all.'

'It's just that I can't seem to recreate. I tell. I don't know how to show...'

'Write what you see happening in your mind's eye.'

'Maybe this'll improve my academic grades, but what about my popularity rating. I only averaged a C+ this semester.'

'Well, this semester's barely 90 seconds old , so there's still time to improve... Lemme give you a ride home and we'll discuss your options in the car.'

As they headed down the six-lane expressway, the purples and pinks and reds of the Californian sunset spelt out the words Toxic Sludge is Good For You. It was as beautiful as Sellafield on a wet winter's eve.

'Look. I normally spin up a doobie on the way home, Samantha. You don't mind if I call you Samantha, do you?'

'Course not.'

'Call me Dean. If you look in the glove compartment you'll find an ounce of California's finest. Our state may have the fifth largest economy in the world, but those Mexicans sure ain't gettin' high picking strawberries 14 hours a day. Did you know that 80% of the world's strawberries are grown here?'

'I think you're confusing me with someone who gives a shit, Professor. You'll be asking me about Iran next. Where's the Mary Jane?'

Sam opened it and ( 'Oh!' ) sure enough there it was. She started loading up a paper on the dash like an expert, while fiddling with the radio, till she found the local hip hop station. Oh la la by The Wiseguys. Nice. She turned it up.

'Usually I wouldn't dream of smoking illegal narcotics with a student whilst driving. But since this is only a story, and I'm Head of Creative Writing, we can allow for a bit of author intrusion, just so's I can get stoned, I reckon. I mean it's not like this is even South Dakota anymore.'

Fifteen minutes later, they were stuck in traffic on a Hollywood freeway. America's biggest cash crop had the entirely predictable effect on Sam. Particularly since she'd had half an MDMA, three beers and 20 mgs of Diazepam before class, as per.

'What do you mean you want me to buy a War Cry? You're in the Army and you're giving me Salvation. Look kid. I'm already in the Army, what do you think the uniform's for, selling ice cream? Get outta here!'

'Dean! Come on. We need surprise and irony,' shouted Sam trying to bring him round.

Luckily, they'd just gotten off the freeway, and Sam was able to slap him back to himself with coffee and kindness. It would take more kindness than she had ever known. She had had to do Hollywood movies since she was fourteen. She remembers very little of it. It became kind of a mechanical thing for her, divorced from any pleasure or pain. Best way really. Just plough through. Get through the punters. Quick. Get out of the rain. Get the bag of brown and then get home to the kids. The Drew Barrymore of Bootle, they called her.

As for Dean, he'd turned into Sgt Bilko on a British Legion night out on a Wednesday in Tooting Bec.

Goddam escapists.