I copied out one of Tim’s top-performing articles, by hand, on my mobile phone. I was standing outside in the freezing winter cold, waiting for the take-out fish and chips I’d ordered. It was painful on my fingers, the sweet agony of writing. I felt like a lonesome desperado, an anti-hero loser writing in the frosty air. I could see my breath. It wasn’t snowing, but it might as well have been.
