Skyhookers with their acrobatic climbing skills keep scaling the walls of the authorial citadel. They should get their own ideas, but, then, ideas are thin on the ground, don't you find? Presumably, that's why they've been employed by my network of competing publishers, i.e. to get their kid-glove mitts on the verbal treasures. They come at me from all directions: scam-touches, cracked-whippets exploited in hungry messenger form, unrobed fatales of all three genders, cat-squatters and armed piglets, which, when you think about it are the worst.
Have you ever had that experience? It's dusk and you find yourself for no good reason at the far end of a wrongtrack street when, out of the gloom of burger and fried chicken joints steps some tinkling spurred sub-species of the swine family, an armed piglet. He knows there's the price of a book deal on your head and he wants it for his paymasters. Who faces down first? In my case, I run like billio!
My current problem, however, are the men on the scaffold. I didn't order a single one of their stupid metal tubes, so their only motive for this vile erection can be my scribbled notes in the drawers and cupboards of the ramshackled filing system I call home.
Or maybe it's just the window cleaner.
No comments:
Post a Comment