I'm not feeling particularly imaginative, so I'll let you all have a treat: An extract from my novel, which I'll never finish. Our hero, framed for a crime he didn't commit and on the run from the law, meets up with his friend Max, who has suggested a secret meeting place, to plan his next move:
“To be honest” Max said “that did nothing for me.
“Actually, the whole display was crap. The artwork itself left me cold inside. I mean, I’m willing to try modern art, but it was just lines and badly drawn people. And what was the theme meant to be? It was just a lot of unconnected little pictures – a dog here, family home there – No underlying message, no connections. And the free wine… I mean, I was expecting cheap stuff, but that was bollocks.” “Actually,” I retorted “It was grape juice.”
“Well, exactly. That really sums up the whole evening. The organisers had so little faith in the whole event they didn’t even splash out on decent wine. Or glasses, those things were bloody plastic. Wasn’t even worth the effort I put into stealing them!”
“Hmm…” I pondered out loud “what were you expecting from St. Mary’s PTA fundraiser? Those pictures were by 7 year olds. Personally, I rather liked some of them.”
Actually, they had been pretty crap, but I suppose it was the best they could do. I’d seen those kids, and some of them had pretty stubby fingers.
“Well, all right then” Max replied, “It was only £1.50. Hey, you know what this reminded me of? Remember that time on The Wombles, when Bungo and Orinoco and all of them pretended to be humans?”
“No” I sighed. I could see where this was going.
“Aye you do” he snapped, “they were all taking heroin, and there was that baby died, but it was crawling on the ceiling”
“For the last time Max, that was Trainspotting. Why do you always think it was an episode of the Wombles? And what’s that got to do with today?”
“Well, it’s just the whole Womble-art thing, you know?”
I didn’t, but I honestly didn’t care any more. Instead, I tried to guide the conversation back to my problem – call me selfish if you will dear reader, it’s your opinion. You Bastard.
“Right” say I, “moving on… I’ve been framed for the lamest fraud since ‘my friend’ Amobi from Africa e-mailed me from his hellish prison cell to ask for $15,000 to fund his revolution, and…”
“Yea” he cut in with, “how’d that work out for him? I’ve got some friends from work who helped out, but he still didn’t have the funds he needed”
“Oh, he got captured. Needs more money, I think. It was a good thing they threw him in a cell with a laptop and internet access though, or he wouldn’t have a hope in hell of getting out. We can’t keep bailing him out though; he’s got to learn to stand on his own two feet.” Again, I was losing control of the conversation, “Anyway, I’m wanted for fraud and someone has my ‘photo album. Where do we go from here?”