|
Do you know why writers write?
It's the women. Definitely. Which is what you'd probably guessed.
Though I honestly wouldn't like to be quoted as saying they throw themselves at writers, and certainly, by no means do I wish to insinuate that they do, you could say, if you so desired, that they tend to hop in our direction quite frequently. And occasionally fall at our feet. Though not in the sense that you might have heard, women dropping from the skies, littering the paths where writers walk, but in the clumsy sense, or the sense that they were wearing rather impossibly high-heeled shoes, and one just happened to have broken whilst attempting to walk by. Unfortunate, really, but, since it qualifies as having fallen at our feet, that's the series of words chosen to describe what it is women are doing to writers.
Some fall while hopping towards us, others tend to be throwing things whilst hopping and dropping their purse. Any which way you slice it, it works out quite well for writers.
This isn't to say women writers are writing for women, as well. Nor are any of the other myriad of possible writers explicitly writing for women. Some of them are writing for travel magazines.
There is nothing quite like the feeling of walking out of your flat, or the feeling of, slightly before leaving your flat, fearing for your safety once you get outside, getting outside, and getting mobbed by a veritable flood of women. A flood of women, for those of you whom haven't quite been lucky enough to bear witness to one, looks disturbingly similar to a wall of water, imitating a whole bunch of women. And water never is a very good imitator.
There is nothing like the feeling of trying to swim your way (to continue the water metaphor/comparison) through this mad throng of women, either. And it's certainly not like the first feeling, where you're just faced with the prospect of having to swim across a sea of women from your doorstep. This feeling is distinctly more nobbly, as thousands of elbows either inadvertantly or on purpose dig in to your ribs, soft stomach bits, shoulders, and various other places. Some might argue, indeed, if they were in that kind of mood, that, in losing sufficient oxygen mid-way through the crowd to the street, it might not be much feeling at all, even.
There is also remarkably little like the feeling of having to apologise to your neighbours for having all those women all over their lawns and bits of the sidewalk.
disclaimer:
It's most certainly a tough Life, indeed it is.
How we manage, we'll never know.
Donations, tax records, phone numbers, and cuddly things may be sent to sanemagazine, London SW7.
|
Yer Weekly Horoscopes. buttered scones and tea in the afternoon.