Sunday afternoon. Inside a Milanese flat.
C: I just can't.
A: what?
C: write. I just CANNOT write this article.
A: why not?
C: I don't know. Haven't felt this way in years, Marjorie. Brain totally dead inside.
A: let me read.
Reads.
A: it's rather good actually. Would probably add this, this and this. And move this here.
C: you are amazing Tots. You know I wouldn't let anyone else tell me these things.
Later.
C: I simply can't.
A: what?
C: write this bloody article! I CAN'T!!!!
A: did you add the bits I told you to?
C: er... I forgot them.
A: are you refusing to write this because it's a massive self-exposure piece, all about yourself, written for the vulgar marketing purpose of getting your name in the national press so more people buy your book when it's out?
C [in hystertics by now]: I HATE YOU!!!! I HATE WRITING!!!!! I HATE EVERYTHING!!!! OH I WISH I WAS A SECRETARY!!!!!!!!!!
3 comments:
You know what's nice? Separate rooms.
I could of course be FURIOUS at these terrible lies... however they are mostly true. And I will forgive Tots anything after he spent 2 hours with me going through the article and refining and making me look a lot cooler than I would otherwise have seen. What a lovely flatmate. Aaah....
A: are you refusing to write this because it's a massive self-exposure piece, all about yourself, written for the vulgar marketing purpose of getting your name in the national press so more people buy your book when it's out?
sounds MARVELLOUS.
not seeing the problem here.
do i need to lend up lashings of my massive ego, blatant exhibitionism and vaulting vanity?
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