Before going to open the meeting I recycled by the bin and had a whiff of cat shit but wiping my feet on the cat-owner’s mat I could see nothing.
John Elliott arrived first and after a wait I opened the cava. At that moment two new people came in, Veenay, a Canadian, and in support of him, Shivekla, a pretty girl. I’d started my reading when Jacqui arrived. She liked the bit on cack, and there was much discussion of this and of cack-handed. I had not consciously stood on cat shit in order to illustrate my reading though I would not put it past my unconscious. Fortunately John E does not believe in the unconscious. I daresay whether he believes in it or not is irrelevant to its existence. He liked my writing. Does that mean there’s something wrong with it?
Quentin missed it. I kissed him on the forehead. He was smelling a bit niffy, I thought.
Jacqui read John’s bit on adopting a new identity. I’d recommend it. Jacqui read the first chapter of her political novel, Quentin from his new one – I was drawn in by the weird thinking of its I-narrator – and Veenay read from his phone a piece of fluid stream of consciousness where some was ‘real’ and some imagined and I took the imagined scene for real but am not sure that matters.
I found the cat shit embedded in the hollows of my boot heel this morning though my first query was had I unconsciously stored Quentin in my clothes cupboard last night.
Talking of shit, I had to delete about thirty spurious comments from my Kipublishingbooks blog and the perpetrators’ emails at hotmail. Apart from being a nuisance, what do they think to gain by this?