There’s a joke I am fond of, somewhat ironically given my inability to finish anything more than a bowl of soup: two men propping up a bar, one says to the other:
‘I’m writing a novel,’
‘Neither am I,’ replies his companion.
I know a lot of people like that. Me included.
And I’ve found another one in my front garden. Well a fragment, the top half of page 132.
Now it’s not my place to say whether it’s any good, clearly the author was dissatisfied, which is why they threw it away, and the wind has carried it to me.
Should I throw it away ? Or do I have a duty to a wider audience ? In years to come the relationship between Tom and Carol could be the literary mystery of the 21st century and here I hold the answer. Is this the work of a new Dickens, a Shakespeare, a Jackie Collins, maybe even, the next Dan Brown.
And who wrote it ? Is it the silver fox with his wine import business on the left ? Or his smiling but enigmatic partner, who knows what she does with her days. Are they the template for Tom and Carol ? Does he smoke discreetly out of the window and admire her for the way she hides her despair ?
Or is it the nut-brown hiker and his soft faced boyfriend ? Which one is responsible ? Why the two shades of ink and what is the guilt Tom carries with him. Has he lost Carol ? Will he get her back ?
Who is the secret novelist of No. 21 or No. 17 ?
If I go through their bins, is there more to be found ?
So many questions and no answers. It’s bad enough that I’ve stolen a bit of their novel (except it did end up on my property). And a new and terrible thought plagues me. What if the wind carried it from further away. It could be anyone in the road, or maybe it flew out of a car window.
So anyway, if you’ve lost the top of page 132, pop in to collect it, think of me as the literary equivalent of Bagpuss. Though please, stop underlining stuff, and don’t use the word despair in the same sentence, whoever you are. I know what I’m talking about you know, after all,‘I’m writing a novel.’
