“Conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative.” Oscar Wilde
Exerpt for 20th November
The first time Seymour had met Calman O’Rourke he had been draped casually across his chair in the Council Chamber like a human Salvador Dali clock the morning after his election as a local councillor. He recalled thinking the man was much too confident, flippant even, as he had cast his eyes skyward and mouthed “or arsenic” to Councillor Louise Byman, who, flustered, had dropped into the chair next to him muttering that the Chief Executive appeared close to mental breakdown and needed to pop a Prozac that morning.
These are not books, lumps of lifeless paper, but minds alive on the shelves. From each of them goes out its own voice… and just as the touch of a button on our set will fill the room with music, so by taking down one of these volumes and opening it, one can call into range the voice of a man far distant in time and space, and hear him speaking to us, mind to mind, heart to heart. ~Gilbert High
Paragraph for 12th November (word count at 11,693 – So far behind now. Hopefully I can catch up after 23rd November.
‘Emma curled up on her bed, with her head under the pillow. The news was so shocking it filled every space of her mind, body and soul until she wanted to scream and shout at the unfairness of it all. She had killed someone, and it wasn’t just any old someone, but the Rt Hon Sir Digby Hart, MP, the Minister for Justice. Once, she had asked Bruce if he had ever killed anyone when on active service. He had stared at a point just over her shoulder and the man behind his eyes had momentarily been replaced by a number, an identity tag and a rifle. “Don’t ever ask me that, Emma,” he had said, with a robotic shake of his head. The moment had passed within just a few seconds, but Emma had known that the man she loved had killed another, perhaps many times. It was just circumstance, the same as this thing she had done to the Justice Minister was just circumstance. She sat up in bed: already the guilt and and unpalatable truth was being erased by ‘circumstance’.
I miss you now, because you were the one I wanted to share this with. Tears of pride would sparkle in your eyes because you would know how hard I have worked, and the sacrifices I have made, to achieve this ambition. I miss you whenever something worries me or plays on my mind, because you were the one who understood me so well. I miss you when I cry because your shoulder was always meant for crying on. I miss you when I laugh because you were the one who shared my sense of humour. I miss you all the time, but never more than when I lay awake at night and think of all the happy times we spent with each other because I know now that those times were some of the best times of my life. I love you Dad. x
Anne Ireson, only daughter of Brian Joseph Beasley (10.2.30 – 7.12.01).
Paragraph for 11th November (word count at 11,300 – I am falling still further behind).
‘I hold you all personally responsible for this mess,’ the Prime Minister bellowed. ‘I had my reservations about Digby’s appointment as the Minister for Justice from the very start – the man’s a known philanderer, and there was that funny business last year which, quite frankly, was most distasteful. He was lucky to keep his job.’
I just wish my mouth had a backspace key. ~Author Unknown
Paragraph for 10th November (word count at 10,579 – I am falling still further behind).
Seymour stopped mid-sentence, horrified. Now what was he going to do? He felt suddenly very hot.
‘No officer – I can assure you I most definitely did not spend yesterday with anyone. And I am not gay – I’m a happily married man with two daughters. For goodness sake, I am the Mayor of Eastbury and my wife is the Head Teacher at St Brendan’s Primary School.’
(The awesome Councillor Alan Mills at the Civic Ball where he sang ‘Do The Hucklebuck’)
Paragraph for 9th November (word count at 9,984 – I am still behind).
‘I’m afraid, Mr Mayor, sir, things have just taken a turn for the worse. The cabinet office has just released a statement that Sir Digby Hart passed away at one o’clock this afternoon. I’m sure I don’t have to spell out the seriousness of the situation, sir …’
“To achieve great things, two things are needed; a plan, and not quite enough time.” Leonard Bernstein 1918-1990
Paragraph for 8th November (word count at 8,810 – I am 2,852 words behind).
Saskia tossed back her long, almost white hair over her shoulders, and posed for her own benefit in the mirror, running her hand over her perfectly flat stomach and smooth hips. She turned around and screwed her head around to inspect her black mini-skirt clad bottom. She really did look good today, and would look even better after the shopping trip she had promised herself as compensation for having to endure last night. Sleeping all night in the same bed as an ageing government minister was one of the more distasteful parts of the deal, only marginally more palatable than having to kiss him passionately on the lips and tell him she loved him. The sex had been the easy part, though, because at least it hadn’t lasted long.