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Showing posts from March, 2017

Teatime

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It was nestled in the onion skins. And I spotted it at 50 paces.
I love miniscule prods from the Universe to stop mucking about and sit at the keyboard.  A true writer would do anything but write, apparently.  Despite having numerous deadlines,  a Treatment due for a Director for the Adaptation of my book which I have been commissioned to produce, and the tiny matter of trying to corral 3 men in the imminent launch of a Rock Band and their debut album,  I spent days conjecturing about the identity of another author.
Who wrote this list?
On a daily basis I frequent a supermarket where I am known by name to all the staff,  from the Manager to the Flower Guy  -  (whom I breast about the 2 and 8 of the plants and how much can I have them for) -   thus they have become immune to me hanging a Pig umbrella from their Tannoy and doing 87 laps of the store in a vain attempt to recall what I actually went in for. And trying to order bales of briquettes to be delivered when your man is already at…