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Though under the instructions of an erroneous postal code, even a letter intended for a region one over can still find its way over and into the letterbox. Despite the feat of such an endeavour (although if this keeps happening, what other pieces of mail are landing in another suburb intended for this?) news of the trodden and gazing flew in under the usher.
The local writer's group of writers, Broken English, with their core of writers ever only writing writings unwritten, announced affairs for the upcoming year. Chief among them was not even enough to make a trip to pay them a visit worthwhile. Ongoing tests of will and Saturdays yielded nothing if not for the pain of listening to meandering nothings. Enthused with a moderate wage of optimism, most were patronising the time, uncertain as to what to make with the gatherings.
Their requests on bringing material to read aloud drove away any last chance. Especially given that there was hardly anything to show for time spent needling the keyboard, churning out words and phrases for the eyes. Of course, now with a few stock items on the accounts, there's even less incentive to make an appearance at any of their following meets.
Tuesday, 15 March 2005 - 16:00
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