He slowly walked the slow, winding path towards the crooked, run-down old house. With one slow, hesitant hand he bravely, resolutely knocked on the dusty, pock-marked, ancient and frightening door. Slowly, it opened slowly. He slowly poked his brave head through the narrow, foreboding gap.
‘Hello?’ he slowly said, bravely.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
The quick and the dead
(Adopts Cyril Fletcher voice.) I am indebted to my old schoolchum Diccon Bewes (author of a forthcoming tome about all things Swiss), who alerted me to the Write Badly Well site, which may give some amusement to anybody who followed my Chasms of the Earth blog:
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3 comments:
That site has made me feel leagues better about myself.
Slowly.
As I sat at my dark, brooding, wooden, mahogany desk with intricate, white, alabaster, ivory inlay, kindly, thoughtfully and altruistically donated to the Balinese cabinet maker from Bali by an elephant from southern Uganda near Africa, brooding on the things that make provoke brooding in me, the thought journeyed transversely across my inquiring, youthfully active and actively conscious consciousness that that passage is actually, undeniably, truly, veritably quite good, and in a good way.
Bugger.
Completely ruined that through superfluous utilisation of the word, "make".
It just doesn't scan now. The rhythm's shot to Hell. Ignore it if you would please, Tim.
I'm off to open a vein or saw off one of my ears or something.
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