Boring, boring, boring
Jaspistos
In Competition No. 2335 you were invited to provide the dullest imaginable opening paragraph of a novel.
For your judge this competition posed two problems. First, might one of you cunningly present me with the first paragraph of Finnegans Wake, guessing correctly that I have never read it, or even send me the beginning of your long since rejected first and only novel? Secondly, how on earth were you going to be boring and amusing at the same time? One man's funny bone is not the same as another's, nor do the readings on different yawnometers agree. So I am more than usually aware of personal taste this week. Victims of this are G.M. Davis, D.A. Prince, Mike Morrison and Lawrence Fray, whom I salute. The prizewinners, printed below, get £25 each, and the Cobra Premium beer goes to Dick Laurie.
The mat was dull, neither very dark nor what could be described as a light dull. Its dullness may have derived from the material of which it was made, or the backing which showed through in places, an identical shade. It had never been another colour, fading to its present monotonous monochrome, and there were no patterns upon it — not even different patterns of what could be said to be dull. The places where the backing showed through revealed nothing in the way of a reason why it might have been worn, if worn it was, It could have disintegrated with age. It was an old mat. Of only slight interest was the fact that it was still there and had not been discarded as useless. It was a useless mat, too. It was a mat upon which not even a cat would have sat.
Dick Laurie
Klein examines the wall. He has painted it white, but is the whiteness quite as unblemished as it was? He examines his handiwork. Brilliant white gloss, it said on the tin, but it is less brilliant now. There is no doubt. A patch — elliptical in shape — has appeared in one corner. This was where he began. The paint has faded, almost imperceptibly. But not quite. There is a line, a frontier between the old paint and the new. And it is moving. Creeping inch by inch across the wall. As Klein watches, the line continues its progress. The entire surface is now a unified shade, but one which disappoints. The whiteness has lost the richness, the sense of completeness, that it had when the paint was first applied. He reaches out, wanting to touch it. But no, It is not ready yet. He will have to wait. Jill Green
Jane sat Listlessly staring out of the window at the rain. The light was beginning to fail, for it was four o'clock and time for a cup of tea. She saw her reflection in the shiny aluminium kettle as she filled it from the kitchen tap. Its convexity made her look thin, but she was not deceived. She was fifty-eight and a spinster. Since moving to Hereford she had made no friends outside the church where she worshipped every Sunday. The scent of tea reminded her of her childhood in Ceylon before it was renamed Sri Lanka. Life was sweet in those days when Daddy and Mummy were alive and sunshine and servants were abundant. The doorbell made her start. She opened the door cautiously to a youth who had called before selling dusters, aprons, etc, 'No, thank you,' she said, pleased with her own decisiveness. Roger Whiteway According to ancient tradition, as recorded in the Black Book of Dork and prophesied by the Lesser Oracle of Blindflook, in the latter days of the Seventh Age the three High Gorm Lords, Gnomedangle, Elfthistle and Glumli, together with their several loonfiefs, set forth in search of the Sacred Orb of Gronegold. Their journeying took them deep into the Nerdlands, where they fought valiantly against the Middlemen of Oink before encountering, in the Northern Wastes, the Warlocklording of Doomdunce. Many were their privations, for arrayed against them were the Western tribes — the Ogli, Moogli and Droners — and short-armed warriors from the Eastern Marches. But help was at hand, for as they approached the fastness of Ergonon they heard the welcoming sound of clungehorns, and the Grand Cullisman of Castle Frogo came out to greet them in fluent Grunic: 'Gen aloon. educen meth, aroining ho vilan metesk.' And they were tilled with wonder.
Watson Weeks The tarmac on the M25 is not all the same colour. There is a variation in the shades of grey, most noticably between the Hertfordshire and Surrey sections. They both have a basic warm grey solidity, but in Hertfordshire there is an added lightness, as though someone had flicked white rose petals into the mixer at the last moment. By contrast, the Surrey section has a darker edge, a coldness born of the clay substrate it is built upon, especially to the west of the M23 junction. Terrifyingly, these changes are not transmitted through to the white lines. A white line is a white line. They impose their artificiality with a standardised callousness, not caring about their effect upon the sections of road they touch. Just like accountants, thought Robert. They impose a structure without considering the basic effectiveness of the company they are auditing. William Danes-Volkov
There was no reason for Walter to say he didn't care. Well, maybe if push came to shove, there was a tiny reason, an infinitesimal one, but certainly not much of a one. If he really and truly hadn't cared it would be different; nothing wrong with one saying he doesn't care if indeed that is the fact. But in this case that small shard of caring made it not only inadvisable but wrong of him to say he didn't care. He said it anyway. Just like that, he said it: I don't care.' Which leaves one to think that perhaps he actually didn't care, and was therefore expressing an accurate feeling. Caring is so subjective; the act of caring has so many ramifications, so many interpretations. And, you see Walter did care, albeit a woefully imperceptible amount. He never should have said, 'I don't care.' Aloe Scanlan
No. 2338: Devilish fishy
You are invited to incorporate, in any order, the following words into a plausible piece of prose (maximum 150 words), using them in a non-piscine sense: torpedo, bleak, flounder, sole, brill, tope, dab, groper, perch, nurse, curl), skate. Please underline the words, Entries to 'Competition No. 2338' by 22 April.
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