Dear kindly ladies of Padstow library,
I’d like to apologise for today’s disruptive and untoward behaviour in the ‘Cookery & Home’ section of your otherwise tranquil library. I hope this letter will offer some way of an explanation for my misdemeanours.
You see, at 3.40pm this afternoon, whilst browsing through the ‘same old, same old’ stories nestled in your beautifully stacked children’s corner, I saw something which caused my blood pressure to plunge rapidly resulting in an unexpected and apparently inconvenient faint. A faint that resulted in you abandoning your date stamps leaving an unusually long queue of two waiting customers.
You’re probably wondering why I fainted and why, upon coming-to, I hurled several hardback Jaqueline Wilson’s at one book in particular. Can you picture it? The proud cocky one, flexing its papery muscles in my face? The one about NITS! Yes, NITS! No big deal there hey? It’s a bloody big deal to me library lady. I’ve spent the last SIX months writing a book about NITS! Aaarrrgggh! The injustice. The suffering. The humiliation.
No one writes about nits. No one. I do! Everyone else writes about puppies, and ponies with rainbow coloured manes. About dinosaurs, witches, and fairies with kittens. I’m the original one. The creator of the elusive original idea. And it’s been stolen. Thieved before I’ve even sent out my first agent hunting letter. Waaaaah!
There’s room for one more nit book hey? Well, maybe there is. But I wanted to be the first. The pioneer of the literary lice tale. My hopes today are scuppered. I’m not sure when I can return to your library. I can’t bear that book’s mocking.
Of course, my mortification is somewhat exaggerated. I realise there are no original ideas and the world seems perfectly content to continue turning despite being weighed down with books about pirates and princesses.
Although the subject matter in my debut children’s book is no longer original, the story within the pages certainly is. And it is this story I will be sending to literary agents this week. Who couldn’t love a book about Lola Louselove’s ‘Lice Line’ – a helpline for distressed head-lice seeking advice on ‘avoiding extraction contraptions’ and ‘effective detection evasion’?
I’d like to thank you for the refreshing glass of milk, the comforting words and for the round leather pouffe for which to raise my jelly legs. I am deeply sorry that Mr Mortimer was unable to renew his ‘Perfecting Pasty Pastry’ in a timely manner and that Mrs Jacobson waited an additional one minute and thirty seconds to reserve the latest Hilary Mantel.
Please do let me know the cost of the damages caused to the covers of those innocent bystanders who were simply caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.