Waiting, waiting, waiting…
‘Just a few more of those buggers’ muttered Pittock, sifting through the usual deluge of competition entries. It had not been a good day. Literally his day had started at 12.01 am. There had been the usual ICQs and the somewhat repetitive offers of marriage from lonely American divorcees unaware of the time zone differences and the effects that can have on male prowess. For relaxation, Pittock had visited the Writers Comp forum and been astounded by the Doran of discontents, not tempered with the Sivewright of sarcasms.
If only they knew – the pressure he was under.
He’d wanted to post earlier but with the Monger of absences – not fully explained by the Harvey of apprehensions and the Lone of laziness – he’d held off as long as possible. Sure, there had been critics from the Scattergood of suspicion to the Disney of despair but he alone, Pittock the persistent, knew the right course to take. ‘I’ve set a bloody deadline and they can jolly well keep to it’ he’d repeat to himself as he stared at their comments on the WOL site. He suspected the Kerry of kyacting might be at play here owing to the times that people posted (personally he preferred to think of a Kerry of kordax – but that was another story best told elsewhere).
Why all this complaining? He’d extended the deadline – all that was needed now was a Bennett of borborygms and his humiliation would be complete. How could he tell them? Would they even countenance that the hold up was to allow him to complete the 50 entries that he had sworn to contribute? Equally would they believe the altruism in that he had urged – begged – others to contribute?
Perhaps he could dissuade them all from personal attacks if he but posted a few of the entries. How could he select them? How could he avoid accusations of favouritism? The Sivewright sillographers stood poised, almost willing him to post something that could – later – be described as ‘puerile toilet humour’. That would square the circle, complete the ‘return’. In the background was a Scattergood of simulacrums, casting aspersions, suspicions everywhere. If only the readership knew just how many of the entries were based round Polish lifestyle, Polish habits and the future of…Poland. But he could not tell. That was not his job. He’d risk the Cunningham criticaster, or, more accurately, the Cunningham of coosters, and withhold the final posts. They’d have to wait. He was de judge and it was his decision.
Anyway surely waiting would make the final delivery all the more pleasurable? Certainly only a Frankis of franions would complain! Only a Mordan of mieny would support such an idea! And wait they shall! How were they to know the sort of life he had been forced to lead? As stated before, his day would start at 12.01 and continue until 4 am. Then there would be a short interlude until his other job (the paying one) started again at 9 am. This could continue until about 7 pm. Then he would return – not to a Doran of dapifers or a Harvey of hodmen, but a simple dinner followed by hour after hour on Dillo. This task befell the DOY in 2001 and he was loathe to relinquish it. That’s why he’d become the Chief archive restorer – just as the previous holder was the Chief FAQ.
To each of us a role in life – which brings me back to this waiting. So, he was late but only for the greater good. This Doran of deontology paled against a Sivewright of superlation – or even (as rumour had it) a Scattergood of swillbowls.
Now the time was near. Soon the posts would be made and the critics could gorge to their hearts content. The waiting would soon be over.
Let the comments begin.