q.i. productions is opening an office, to complement it's office in Islington, in Chelsea. Needless to say, employees of the two offices will not be allowed to attend football matches together, but may attend other social functions simultaneously.
It'd be good, in fact, for our public image, to have the two disparate regions of London be seen together, bridging the miles, or mile, at any rate, sharing a good laugh, a drink at the pub, maybe entertaining orphans.
It all works out rather well, considering.
Considering the disturbing rumours that are being spread (hence the title this week) concerning our writers.
[if this issue is ever turned, for some reason or another, into a musical, everything from "concerning" on could be re-phrased as "concerning our discerning writers," and I have a lovely song and dance in mind that would be just perfect for the part, and would be initiated, nay, sparked by that very rhyme, sending off the entire number, perhaps as it's raining, and the characters are walking along a sidewalk bordering a park. Just a note in case someone sees fit to back it as a musical production. However, considering what's to follow, the "discerning" has to be left off, though I'm more than willing to do a re-write or two for the musical production.]
Apparently, owing to attitudes and guarded mannerisms certain people have adopted around our writers, no one trusts their lives to our fully competent writers' hands. One reasonably reliable source has tale of close relatives, friends, neighbours, and small children refusing to move for extended periods of time bordering on days, for fear of creating material suitable for a sanemagazine issue.
It has gotten so that all activity ceases in a room upon the entrance of a writer of ours. And it's not just us. People outside of sanemagazine who find themselves, for some reason or another (usually related to either some form of alcohol abuse or financial ineptitude), in the business of writing (not for a living, because that'd push the tale entirely too far into the whimsical realm, though it may make a lovely scene in the musical, which I am more than willing to write in, if need be, for the final production), also have apparently experienced this. As it is, New York City and Paris have come to whinging halts, as, the last census and/or Gallup poll indicates that over 125% of people living in New York City and Paris are writers of some form or another, the most popular being the post-graduate student who still hasn't realised that writing isn't as glamourous as it seems, and that all the glamour is in the Stock Exchange.
Luckily, too busy to notice someone scribbling furiously about themselves having spilled their coffee all over because they're busy writing down that "'Life is Truth, and Truth is all of Us, baby' he said, as they turned, boarded the ocean liner, and sailed for Africa, knowing their future lay ahead of them, their past behind them, and that her laundry was never going to be taken in off the line," which was inspired by a rather terrible cup of coffee, resting comfortably, if a bit warm, on the floor and pants of the person in question, as they get up to leave, just like the people they're going to write some long long novel about that ends with the couple leaving for Africa, with past and future hanging out on either side, these writers are still content to continue on, and go to their jobs at the Post Office, dry cleaners, restaurant, window washers, petrol stations, keeping society moving while the normal people remain indoors, fearing for their dignity.
And so while it will be nice to have our writers walking about London, arm-in-arm, normal people will not see this display. Again fortunately, very good fortune it is, newspaper reporters will still be about, to write all about it for the people sitting at home, with the shutters closed. So I guess it all works out anyway. Nothing to worry about whatsoever.
Actually, instead of worrying, it's comforting to know we'll be keeping our writers safely together with their own kind, where they're bound to do less damage than they might otherwise.
disclaimer:
Yes, see what's happened? A few months ago we write that London's let us back into the city, and suddenly we have two offices there.
If you let sanemagazine into your heart, you're only a few steps away from something or other, I wrote it down here on a napkin, but it's gotten smudged, and I can't read my writing. I believe it may have been two words, a dozen letters or so between them.
Enquiries after the musical production of this issue may be made to either sanemagazine online or our Chelsea office, in London SW 10 after January 23rd.
Yer Weekly Horoscopes. no des ondits here!