Tim is in what is best termed a Bad Mood. It isn't just because he can't avoid the fact that he's going to be thirty soon. And it isn't just because he's spent an entire morning's rehearsal giving it his all (alright, so he'd been a bit late - it happens) without gaining so much as a nod of approval from any of the bastards. It isn't even because he's still nowhere near being who, where and what he wants to be. No, it's more that he's ended up at a poxy, third-rate so-called theatre in this poxy, up-itself town where anyone who isn't a Fucking Tourist is a Fucking Student, and he's been bereft of nicotine the entire fucking morning. The supermarket down the road had looked likely until he'd seen that he'd have to endure a five-month wait in a queue composed entirely, as far as Tim could see, of Fucking Tourists, Fucking Students and Bloody, Fucking Locals. All he wants, all Tim really, really, really wants right now is a cigarette. And it's looking as likely as existential fulfilment.
He's not walking with any purpose anymore, just carrying on for the sake of it. It's not a bad plan, though, because suddenly there it is. Mecca, shining in the midday sunlight like the Holy Grail, and he doesn't give a fuck whether that's a sacrilegious mixed metaphor. Because there's a newsagent's, just across the road, and no bloody queue snaking down the block either. Thank fuck.
well ok then.
Have a fag on me.
this isn't a hook, this is a first page.
It's also ripe with malevolent energy that makes Miss Snark very very happy.
Trouble is, you'll need a hook in your query letter.