The Literary High Life.

The affair of Karolina’s thesis, as reported in the previous post, was not the only literary item of note today. Some weeks ago, one of the librarians at Ashbourne asked me to provide copies of my two books for their shelves, which I did. I noticed today that one of them was missing, so I enquired.

‘Yes, it’s out on loan,’ I was told.

That’s the first time in my life that a book of mine has been out on loan from a library, which is neat. Isn’t it? It is. So now I have to decide whether my autograph should begin JJ, Jeff or Jeffrey.

‘What’s your name, my dear?’

‘Ethel.’

‘To Ethel, a woman of obvious good taste. Congratulations. JJ Beazley.’

Neat.

Alternative Scenario:

The next time I go into the library, James calls me over.

‘A woman took your book out.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘I’m afraid she’s written on several of the pages in felt tip pen.’

‘Oh really? What did she write?’

‘THIS IS CRAP. Any chance of another copy?’

‘James, I have to pay for these, you know.’

Apologetic incline of the head.

*   *  *

Meanwhile, back in Paris, Robert and Sophie are escaping the police in a taxi. The driver gets a call, and Sophie (being the brighter of the two) realises it’s about them. She points Robert’s gun at the driver’s head and forces him to stop and get out. Then she tells Robert:

‘Robert, you’re driving.’

(She’s so forceful, you know, so forceful. Must be all that burgundy hair framing the warmth of her face.)

But Robert has a problem: he’s never used a gear shift and clutch before. Well, that’s Americans for you. I think it’s about time she threw him over and got herself a poor Englishman who’s never driven an automatic in his life. I wonder whether I could stop off on my way back from Poland.