My non-existent essay.

In my last few weeks at school, I was ordered along with the rest of my peers to write an essay on the theme of “The British Commonwealth” for a competition.

I hated my school. I particularly hated my headmaster. I hated competitions. I had no opinion that the Commonwealth was exclusively a force for good. And I utterly detested being told what to write. So I spent my time in the library, like the others. I read stuff, I have no idea what. I made notes, apparently.

I did not write the essay.

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On Obedience

I used to be so good you know
when I was in my youth
I used to be compliant
and always told the truth. 

I kept myself so spotless
with perfect clothes and hair
and used to smile so nicely
when others weren’t fair. 

Now I am getting older
my patience has worn thin
I swear and curse my colleagues
and drink a lot of gin. 

My sarcasm is boundless
my temper rather frayed
and you will be quite certain
if your welcome’s overstayed. 

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Words are easy. Words are cheap. When people say where did you get the idea for your book, words are what they want, and words themselves have nothing to do with why I write. Because I’m not really a writer. What I am, is a reader. That’s me. Curled up somewhere so deep inside a story that it’s more real than the real world. If it’s night time in that story I’ll look up confused at the sunshine coming through the window. Daydreamer. Fool. And when I sit down to write a book it’s not some grand idea - it’s because I want to read that book and I know nobody is going to write it except me.

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