Castle in the Clouds

Numerous amongst us have often wondered what it would be like to be paid for something that we actually enjoy doing. For those who have found that perfect job, I commend you. For the rest of us, we are spinning around like someone who has had their left foot nailed to the floor and are left to rotate like a panicking sentient wurlitzer. "Why am I here? What is my duty? Ou est le gare?" OK. So the latter is more for those still steeped in the early chapters of Tricolour and the antics of the visitors in La Rochelle; but for the rest of us, we are caught in a quagmire of indecisive angst and weary lack of direction.

I am one of those who feels the almost umbilical pull toward the old qwerty keyboard. There is something inside of me that wants to emulate the script of the likes of Victoria Wood, Alan Bennett, or the chap who wrote the OXO commercials. I want to WRITE!! I want to be someone who one day is studied by Generation F-point-2. Is that too much to ask??

The problem is, I suffer from so much self-doubt and anxiety. Give me a glass of Pinot Grigio and a bag of Red Rock Deli chips, and I feel like Chaucer! But come daylight, I want to hang myself in an oven full of razor blades like the Plaths or Woolfs before me

In a perfect world, I would live, quite peacefully, in a lighthouse (or other remote abode) smacking my fingers against the horrific plasticity of the modern version of Jessica Fletcher's modus operandi and channel dialogue into the fictional larynxes of my beautiful creations (Microsoft Word will not accept 'larynxes' as an acceptable word - which is just one of the many reasons we should have an uprising against the USA. Jeepers, we Brits INVENTED the language, I think we know how to bloody use it... fuckers!), but, alas, no. I am (apparently) condemned to a life of menial tasks and obligatory abeyance of the "system" and the monstrosities within. Who came up with this?? Flippin' 'eck!

So, tell me, my ardent friends, would you appreciate a caustic vendetta against the inhuman system that currently harpoons our simplistic lives, written by the aggressive, yet verbose and articulate ME?

If so, send your written approval on a postcard to the following address. No correspondence will be entered into.

Me

My (rather cripplingly expensive) apartment

Melbourne

Buttocks of the world

Earth

FQ2 UR1

P.S. My "sitcom" has a working title of Mondays and is set in the post-work world of two male flatmates (one gay, one straight) and, each week, vent and condemn the entirety of our modern era and those who work within it over a few glasses of New Zealand white plonk. Sounds workable? I think so!

Preliminnary notes below! Gosh, I am so professional!

This could be MY Castle in the Clouds...