Monday March 9th 2015
A rescheduled day.
Three o'clock this afternoon. Several hours from now. A
long cruel wait, which will probably include a great
deal of Nowcasting. It couldn't be at a worse time.
Never again. There's a ceiling light to look at, a
clock, a little propaganda about white smiles to curl
the toes at. And through the window there's a car
parking area to look at.
And it's at this
juncture your writer of pulp allows his mind to wander
across the pages of Mathurin, who at least had the bottom
shelf of his House Library to stare at. It was the shelf of
H, and in the shelf of H there were sixteen books, all of
which except one had been written by Henty. The first book
in the row had been written by Habberton and that book was
called Annals of a Baby Son.