What a lark, eh? An illustrious historian of my acquaintance has induced me to step into the glorious blogging empire and charge my humble pen to the purpose of entertaining the masses.
As I gnawed on the last crust of this month’s solitary ha’penny loaf, my heart awakened with joy at the prospect of fame and – more to the point – fortune.
A blog? thought I. Why, the genius of the idea! Within the space of two posts, I should have publishers clamouring to award me a substantial advance for An Extraordinary Incident: The Book. No more this draughty garret for me! No more should I be snubbed by the hostesses of literary soirées and forced to sit forever alone on the one crate I have not yet burnt for warmth. No more should I be obliged to make incisions about my person for the purpose of obtaining sufficient blood to write in, ink being beyond my means in these troubled days.
Imagine my consternation, then, when my esteemed companion informed me that one must blog for no recompense at all save the attention of a few persons on Mr Twitter’s Patent Self-promotion Apparatus, who might deign to re-tweet one’s posts provided one is available at all hours of the day to simper over their own 140-character droplets of wisdom.
Well, blow that for a game, said I – I scribble for cash alone. A few ‘Likes’ in Zuckerberg’s Directory of Minor Acquaintances’ Visages will not keep the ravening wolf from the door, even if the same wolf should be bitterly disappointed at the meagre pickings to be found within my lofty abode.
I therefore continue to scratch out my living writing of the sensational circumstances surrounding others’ lives and deaths. On this blog (for I now appear to have been saddled with it after all), I beg leave to share with you some of my
inventions reportage and that of my fellow newspaper drudges across the nation.
I remain, (forever at this rate), everyone’s servant, including