'So',

she says.
'What happened to being funny?'

she says.

'Well,'

I says,

'You have one of two options. Humorous, witty, well thought out prose with a social message contained there in ... or something I have written.'

'But you promised so much.'

she says.

'Well yes. But sadly the company who were supplying my Interocitor as a part work went bust. Six months of carefully hoarding a multitude of sprockets and doohickeys and all I have to show for it is this super
efficient toaster. No fun, no excitement and absolutely no really wild
things. Not even Terry Nutkin. I will admit that this was a stunning blow to my aims for the column but I still had a few things up my sleeve. The rambling letter writer was fairly obvious but I had hoped for a steady stream. How was I to know that he would get six months and a fatwa. I just hope that the diaries he has promised me are worth the outlay. A good picture of Winston Churchill is hard to smuggle in there.'

I says.

'Well yes,'

she says,
'This is all true. If you had ever bothered to try and write something before the Wednesday of each week you might find it easier.'

'Umm, true.'

I says.

'But I always hope that some inspiration will strike and so leave it. Sadly it rarely does.'

'Well what about taking on other peoples ideas?'

'What, like a write up of that truly Boozy Oaf party last year? But I barely remember it. I remember arriving, clad in my finest Wild West
outfit, circa Marks and Spencers 1994, and partaking in some jolly banter. I remember meeting the local alcoholic and realising I had reached stage three. Stage One being as a young student when you think its cool that he has so much booze and is sharing it around. Stage Two is when you realise he has a problem and refuse to drink with him, even going out of your way to find him sobering things to do. Stage Three is when you realise this isn't working and just try to get the booze off of him. In my case by drinking it. How was I to know he had brought five hipflasks of fine single malt? Yes, FIVE! All I really remember after that was an over powering love of The Darkness before I woke up on my sofa the next morning with no idea how I got there. So you see, an entertaining enough story for those involved but not terribly long or well told.'

'Hmm.'

she said.
'Okay. One last question though. Why do you keep referring
to your conscience as She?'

Next time - Big Fish, Little Fish, Cardboard Box...

My Life as a Boozy Oaf
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