A Face Flannel, My Life as a Pastry, and the Tom-Tom Drum

Today I had lunch with my literary agent, Elizabeth Sitwell. On arrival she had misery painted all over her face. The maitre d' was kind enough to provide a face flannel to wash it off. Though a slender, spirited creature, Elizabeth tends to be remote and vague. She has no concept of the value of money, and has a tendency to walk on all fours when a conversation becomes exciting.

Her most irritating habit, however, is to shout, "Drive like hell!", while walking in the street. For her, I play the fool. To her, I am a fool. C'est la vie.

"Well, what can I say?" She looked perplexed, and started tossing sharp, short comments in the air and catching them in her mouth. "Your short novel has no plot, hurried syntax, and the title, My Life as a Pastry ... is ... well ... unengaging, nervermind worrying". I asked if she believed I would ever be published? She thought seriously and replied, "Published is a big word". She smiled. " The only avenue left is to translate some of your works into English, even though, to you, they already are".

I must confess I felt condemned, abandoned. Her words overwhelmed me. Was I a fraud? I knew it, but did others? I am aware I write badly. In fact, in my first short novel Even Vegetables get Homesick I used "badly" eighty-six times in one chapter.

"Maybe I'm wrong," she said, slowly and hesitantly, "but I believe you should go on. Continue writing, but try to enrich your vocabulary. And if I may say so, long inner dialogues, repetition, lack of a theme, will not attract readers' to your works ..." I thanked Elizabeth for her honesty, intelligence, and company. I felt like a cat with a slippery mouse. I remained smiling as she left. Then my brain suddenly went offline.

Good news at last! My new play A Little Bit of Bread and No Cheese is to be staged off-off-off-off- Broadway. It will be staged in a baguette basket on the back of a scooter in Versailles, France. I must find bread that has charisma, can engage with its audience, remember its lines, and can collaborate with butter. Slowly, I begin to feel joy again. The quality of the bread will make, or break, the project. My search begins!

Reflections: Tonight my wife is trying her best to upset me. She is standing beside me playing her tom-tom drum with her prosthetic hip repacement implant. To make matters worse my wife has big pianist's hands. The noise is unbearable, and she keeps mercilessly chanting, "Patience! You'll get your tea in half an hour! PATIENCE!"

If I was on a boat I would consider jumping into the sea. I stop writing, grap an apple, and sit down in the corner of the room. As I eat the apple, and watch my wife, I reflect a day will come when I can stand it no longer. I fall asleep.