I chose my blogger name not because I believe in cavemen: I don't. Of course I understand that a man can live in a cave out of choice (and why not?), but I don't think there were ever any primitive communities of Neanderthals huddled together in the dark with stone tools and animal skins, other than in the imaginings of that silly and pernicious rascal: the creative writer.
So why did you choose it?
I looked across the room at Staunton, who had not lifted up his eyes from his cards as he spoke.
I just shrugged in reply. There was never any point trading words with Staunton, unless there was a fishing trip to organise or some sausages to cook, or at least plan for.
I turned back to the window.
I chose it, said I, because I used to live in Cave street. In a squat that we called "The Cave". I was a young man and they were happy times. Until it all spiralled out of control one dismal rainy morning.
Prod, you know, is what people used to call me when my name was Prodigal Son, which it was for a couple of years. I mean they didn't actually call me that or anything much at all, but I imagined that they might, in a moment of friendly benevolence, if we were ever in the business of tramping around a lake together and planning to cook some sausages and brew a cuppa.
Did you remember to bring the sugar?
"Ask Prod", would be the reply, because I was known to be thorough in such matters.
Also, back in those days, I would always have some tobacco, skins, herb, roach card, and a well primed Zippo. Because I was a regular smoker.
After a while I discovered I didn't need that stuff at all. It was Jesus Christ who told me: you don't need that stuff lad, saith He, you've got me now. He was right - of course.
So why did you choose it?
I looked across the room at Staunton, who had not lifted up his eyes from his cards as he spoke.
I just shrugged in reply. There was never any point trading words with Staunton, unless there was a fishing trip to organise or some sausages to cook, or at least plan for.
I turned back to the window.
I chose it, said I, because I used to live in Cave street. In a squat that we called "The Cave". I was a young man and they were happy times. Until it all spiralled out of control one dismal rainy morning.
Prod, you know, is what people used to call me when my name was Prodigal Son, which it was for a couple of years. I mean they didn't actually call me that or anything much at all, but I imagined that they might, in a moment of friendly benevolence, if we were ever in the business of tramping around a lake together and planning to cook some sausages and brew a cuppa.
Did you remember to bring the sugar?
"Ask Prod", would be the reply, because I was known to be thorough in such matters.
Also, back in those days, I would always have some tobacco, skins, herb, roach card, and a well primed Zippo. Because I was a regular smoker.
After a while I discovered I didn't need that stuff at all. It was Jesus Christ who told me: you don't need that stuff lad, saith He, you've got me now. He was right - of course.
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