Dear Reader

Last night*, a polite man from the Mail & Guardian called and hired me to do a regular piece for them – a bit like Tom Eaton’s Pitch & Mutter, only without the self-referential cheese (his words, not mine).

Unfortunately, he continued in impeccable mid-Atlantic, there isn’t any space left in the main body of the newspaper. Could I make do with two lines of copy – cunningly titled: A Column Inch – in the Classifieds section of the tabloid? Hell yes, I said, I think I probably could, and whipped up three contributions in record time.

I was deliberating whether or not to introduce a Delivery Guy to the last of these, when I realised that I was awake and it was raining. My duvet had once again abandoned me to the elements and I couldn’t feel my legs. I scrabbled around in the dark for a pen and wrote down everything on an abandoned till slip before gathering the bedclothes around me and sinking back into uneventful slumber.

A Column Inch. Not a bad title, actually – p’raps I’ll give the M&G a ring in the morning…

Yours guilelessly,

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Mrs. Tex Benitez



{*April 15 2004, to be precise.}


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