Two in a row, just because I can

Have to wait for the electric blanket to warm up.
Some people expressed interest a while back in doing the whole blog shared story thing - write a bit as long or short as you like, pass it on to the next person, the next person writes a bit, passes it on, etc. Promptly, I did nothing about it. Well, for some reason I'm getting all bloggy up on that mofo's punkarse of late, a'ight? So here's some opening bit for some idea I have previously written down in the whole Gollightly piss-take detective thing, one excerpt of which has already appeared on this blog. And so the next blogger then carries on in the same vein, or uses some literary 'it was all a dream' thing if they like (man, if that's the end of the third Matrix movie, I may have to throw something at the screen) and do something totally different (but it would be better if it was somehow vaguely related of course, perhaps forming some type of 'narrative', so we can of course pitch it at publishers later and naturally make jillions) I nominate next blog as James C., since he hasn't written in a while, because he said he was interested, and because conversation was too brief and Sammy's too loud to bring it up in actual conversation during the 45 minutes he spent in the country recently. And also because I say so. And if he thinks the whole situation untenable then he'll just have to post words to that effect instead. Right, onwards.


The phone chirped next to Gollightly's ear. He woke up, rolled over, detached his tongue from the roof of his mouth with a spatula he kept handy on the bedside table for just such a purpose, and picked up the receiver.
"Mugharf?" he inquired wittily.
"Gollightly? This is Simmons. We've got a homicide. Be here in 15 minutes." The voice was that of a man with a tongue that had enjoyed independent movement for many hours, possibly days, or even weeks . "And remember to put a shirt on this time" it concluded. The phone clicked dead.
Gollightly sank back on to the pillow and groaned. Although this second groan of the morning was a good deal more coherent than the first, it was an unhappy groan indeed. There were two reasons for this: firstly, Gollightly was alone in the bed, and secondly, murder first thing on a Monday morning, indeed at the crack of 11:27am, was a tough ask of any man. Gollightly hated to start the week with a homicide. A homicide required some serious thinking far too early in the week for his own liking. Like many working people, Gollightly's work ethic called for a steady buildup of effort throughout the week, so that he was really sharp on a Thursday afternoon, before the crash of the unavoidable TGIF Torpor, and someone dead first thing in the week threw his whole system out of whack. In addition, homicide cases had a habit of turning nasty, and a few of them had ended up with him being shot at. Apart from anything else, blood was really hard to get off your shoes.
Gollightly closed his eyes tightly for a second, and immediately came up with another reason to groan: bourbon was his enemy. He made a mental note to hunt it down at the next possible opportunity and drink the living daylights out of it. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes again to take in the empty expanse of bed to his left.
"Women" he reflected. "Can't live with 'em, can't kill 'em."


There you are. Tune in to Page de James sometime possibly soon, possibly not, for the next possibly exciting installment. I myself have NO idea what will happen. Ooo, adventure, excitement (a Jedi craves not these things). No pressure Jim lad. Arr. Ahahahaharrrrrrr.

Sorry, went mad again.

And now things should be sufficiently warm. But while I'm in an authoring sort of mood, let's, er, bust some poetry:

Let us give thanks for blankets electric
And their inventor, no doubt some eccentric
Who knew all too well that in bed, with your kit off
You needn't put up with freezing your tits off.

Right then.