Top positive review
A Cracking Read
on 22 August 2018
I'll be honest, I had no idea what books were until about a fortnight ago, when a fellow of my acquaintance showed me some back at his flat. I'd been living in a wardrobe down by the beck, mostly just eating whatever I could lay my tendrils on, I mean claws... hands, including pensioners and the occasional ratatatat, I mean rabbit. Obviously I'd seen the odd book before, ones what everyday folk had left behind, but I had no idea what was inside them. If I couldn't eat something or utilise it in some other purely practical fashion, I don't know, as a hat, a rudimentary shoe, some kind of underwear or what-have-you, I just wasn't interested. Then, as I say, I met this chap, Bruno, we'll call him, walking his I want to say potato but it was probably a dog, down on the wasteland near where I live, and he said he wanted to help me, that I should come back to his abode with him. I gathered his general thrust, and, though I had it more in mind to either eat him or his blessed potato – dog, which never stopped yapping once during our confabulation and the walk back to his apartment, or see what else I could get my tentacles on, biscuits is what I like best, I went with him.
Anyway, to edit a rather protracted fiction down to a somewhat more easily digested version, he fed me, insisted I take what he called a bath, fed me again, clothed me, fed me again, shod me in a rather nice pair of Oxfords that were just my size, attempted to make love to me, apologised, fed me, attempted the romantic business again rather more successfully, fed me, instructed me on how to use the toilet rather than doing it just anywhere, gave me some clean underwear and a rather nice pair of pleated corduroys that were just my size, fed me, and then set about teaching me how to speak. Well, Rome wasn't built in a day but within two or three, and Bruno or whatever he was called, or I called him, was knocked sideways, I was chatting like an old hand. If I wasn't eating, or bathing, which I'd come to enjoy, or making love with Bruno, which was quite fun too, all in all, I was practising my new found skill, endlessly asking what this was, what that, what the past participle of such and such might be, getting to grips with all the nuances of speech, conversation, etc. During one such session, as we might describe them, I pointed to what turned out to be a bookshelf full of books and enquired as to what they might be. In a matter of minutes good old Bruno? had one out and was showing me how they worked, the magic of the written word. Within a matter of a few days I was reading alone, voraciously, as though born to it, hooked on it as is any wino to his bootle of groog. Had it not been for the fact that Bruno interrupted me during 'Last Exit to Brooklyn', with more of his amatory efforts, causing me to kill him and his po– dog, and eat them, I should have thanked him unequivocally for the gift he had given me, however, c'est la vie, as they say.