An odorous treatise

“Oh there he is, the great I am, I am”, said Stinking Pete.

“What?”, I said, as I made my way to my stool in Ron’s.

“Mr Academia. The pedalogical inkhorn.”

“Eh?”

“Mr Pen and Paper. The promulgated bluestocking.”

“What the fuck are you on about?”

“You know fine well. Coming in here with your airs and graces nowadays. Thinking you’re so great because you’re a highbrow, bookish, tragedian, dramaturge.”

“Stinking Pete”, I said, “I really don’t know what you mean. I am the same person I always was. You think because I’ve written a book I’m somehow changed in some fundamental way? Do you think so little of me that being a ‘published author’ would make me forget where I came from and who I am? That the fact my domain has spread from Ron’s bar to Hodges & Figgis means that I consider myself even more better than you than I did in the first place? Shame on you, Stinking Pete.”

“Book? What book? I just noticed you got 4 clues in yesterday’s Crossaire and just happened to leave it lying on the bar for people to see you big fucking show-off.”

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