Black Pudding

Oh…my…God!  Mr G, that is absolutely…

She sighed so hard that a snot bubble briefly formed and burst at the edge of her right nostril. He leaned back and patted his stomach.

Egg yolk ran over the black pudding and onto the plate. Valerie Maythorp-Phillip’s eyes glowed in the fluorescent light.

Oh my God, she said again and clapped her hands.

Mr G was comforted. 

And that was the best feeling he knew.

I wrote this some time last year. I don't know why. This seems to be where my writing is at as they say. I'll jot something down and forget about it. I've had no "stonking" ideas for a while, just a great big blank where stories should be. And the odd couple of lines when the muse did finally strike me.

I'm beginning to think my desire to be an author has run its course. Like a virus that drags from a full blown cold into intermittent snuffles, the odd coughing fit and then finally a vague memory.

I think part of the problem is that I don't see the point anymore. Everyone and his son and daughter are writing. Most of them are turning out the same old turgid crap that's gone before, good and bad versions of previous lauded works. 

Everything seems to be trivial like we're competing over how much crap we can produce in a month.

Oh hang on, I've just realized something, it's New Year and I'm drinking scotch. 

Phew, for a moment there, I thought I'd come to some great epiphany. 

Oh, well, back to my kettlebellintermittentfastingdetoxthehelloutofyouragingbodyworkoutthingy...

Happy New Year to you all.