You know that whole adage about ‘If you don’t have anything nice to say, keep your blooming gob shut, &ct’? Yes, well, I’m still here, trying to think of something nice to say.
But honestly, I get around the internet these days and all I can picture is an infinity of monkeys on an infinity of typewriters, except that instead of one of them producing Shakespeare, virtually all of them are patting themselves on the back for escaping the circus, and for being able to tell the difference between a typewriter and a banana in the first place.
But if a monkey types in a forest and nobody is around to read what it’s written, has the monkey actually written anything? And! Is there even a monkey?
You know? So it’s a dilemma.
Then I was watching a BBC programme about these young kids who are passionate about their oboes or whatever, and it finally dawned on me that even though they will have to calibrate their personalities until they’ve attained the right mixture of awkwardness to parts arrogance, they don’t need someone to witness them alone in their concrete rooms playing the same bridge over and over and over again until they get it right. And do you know why?
(Here’s where the ‘nice’ comes in, I promise.)
Because they are only practicing. It’s what they are practicing for that sets them apart from everyone else on earth who owns an instrument that is gathering dust in a prominent corner of their living room.
One
So here I am - horribly out of practice and yet determined not to run for the safety of my television set until I’ve spent some quality time with my word processor. It’s not a concrete room, as you can plainly see – not yet. But just wait until I close the door.
It’s going to happen one of these days. I’m telling you. Monkey to monkey.
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