Anakana Schofield – Author of Bina, Martin John and Malarky

o’verbally

The great mystery of human behaviour in the midst of  city traffic continues. Here I am a trotting along, reading, when a certain rouse of verbal abuse is detected by my auditory radar. Three individuals, two fellas, one gal but can’t look sufficient to determine, for am attempting to keep up guise of not having heard they are offering their opinions loudly out the truck window for my benefit.

The truck, which is a can’t quite make it’s mind up colour between almost gold and yellow and green and sand, I dislike. It’s occupants are continuing to unnerve me with their remarks.

I placate myself with the possibility it’s the book they’re objecting to: Francine Prose’s Reading like a writer. Those truck occupants are repudiating her insistence on a good sentence. It’s true she’s getting a bit pedantic on the merits of a sentence on this particular page, but I would defend her across this lane of traffic. “It matters to her, let her have her sentences I could yell over to them. Leave Francine to her livres.”

They’re still objecting in the truck that moves too slowly due to the clogged up into a single lane instead of two because we’re building a tunnel traffic. (Francine would most certainly not approve of that sentence) It’s moving at a walker’s pace which is unfortunate because there’s a long lump of concrete tunnel lying in the road, which by virtue of being a short person, would block their access. Try slowing, try timing the trot, but no it would be necessary to stop still and squat beside the pipe like something from the “funnies” section and no truck shall make me do such.

Emerge past said concrete barrier and they’re now again at my left ear. The verdict is announced and it’s hard to be certain the exact combination of the words but it’s something like: you should give up reading that book, or you should give up reading or you should give that up.

Molto perplexing. There’s much to be gained from reading this book or I would not have been compelled to risk walking into a lamp post in the quest to read more of it.

Walking and reading makes much sense when the possibility of sitting and reading isn’t available. It’s necessary to get places and sometimes you don’t wish to be aware of getting there, preferring instead to spend the journey unravelling exactly where it all went wrong for Monsieur Goriot. It also offers excellent remediation for the balance organs, of which, high numbers of writers appear to suffer trouble with.

I think it was the act of walking that the truck passengers didn’t care for. Perhaps it’s part of the leasing deal. If you lease a four wheel 8 cylinder engine you have to harass four pedestrians a week to avoid interest hikes.

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