...and all I got was this lousy blog entry.
Truth be told, it was the entrance building next door that accepted my waste donation, but who's paying attention anyway??
Well as you can guess this week I paid (and $paid$) a visit to a fellow literary great. (Don't pretend this isn't some of the best shit you've ever read. No? Well fuck you, get out of my house.)
To say the least, his house was rubbish. No coffee, no biscuits; just some tossers banging on about people I care nothing about, which was everyone except Bill himself. Apologies to the lovely old lady entertaining us with tales of poppa Speares' glove making business. You were fantastic.
Walking into the house is fairly underwhelming. Dare I say it, to the untrained eye the place was Boring.
It would surprise you then, to hear the house was positively dripping with excitement...Provided you were the heavily goggled older gentleman standing next to said glove lady. I swear he got the horn and his glasses fogged when she waxed lyrical on the various farm animals and finger holes...
Dirty old fucker.
So, apart from the David Stratton looky likey, we all appeared quite sick of it...Unless you were the fucking American family...who asked questions! Are you kidding me? Who gives a shit about how the fucking hide was prepared before stitching started!
It was around this time I walked out.
This may be my cynical side talking, but I have this sneaking suspicion I'm only going to these places for the souvenir shops...
POST SCRIPT - When the time comes that my birthplace is to become a point of pilgrimage, how 'bout we all just say I was born in a barn. An excuse will be needed for why this was the case, of course. Maybe all the inns were full?? People'd buy that, surely??
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