I slapped my forehead, slapped on my y-fronts. Yes, it was certainly true, I had indeed sent my publisher a shit in the post.
Two jobs to do that day, empty the cat litter and post the scented envelope to Mrs Penguin. Evidence lay spread before me in the kitten cage, the pink note, wet at the edges.
‘Well,’ I surmised, ‘at least it was a cat shit.’
Other permutations were not open for consideration. Drinking my coffee I devised ways in which I might resolve this delicate matter.
Not the cat, the cat did not read. The prose in my note was perfectly pitched, the equal to any Sunday Times underlay.
If the cat shit dried in transit, potentially I might suggest the hard, turgid lump was actually Afghanistan’s finest Moroccan, possibly? No, this solution simply would not do for a man of my sober tastes and eclectic, catholic, all of the big words you can think of [is me]; and don’t send drugs to a publisher, and the sensibilities of a rural magistrate is me.
Perhaps an apology here on-line might dig me from this trench, or grave of my disappointing career as a blogger, man of great wit and observation once, but now the fat pig
, he dribbles in his own desperate sty of filth. I attach a selfie.
Also, an unrelated matter, an appreciation of my writings, published & actually mainly umpublished can be found here:
courtesy of delightful Countess Esme du Chap-Probablement, he is an inspiration.