Hecky blimey O'Reilly times seven!
Now we're in trouble, I tell myself. Here I am trying to write the next chapter and my flippin Kindle's downstairs! Now how am I going to convince the reader that this is genuine, if I can't crib off the original? Plus I've nearly got to the end of the free sample. If it carries on like this, I'm going to have to make stuff up!
But here goes, Analgesia Boron, I tell myself. Yorkshire lay readers are made of stern stuff. It will take more than this to throw me off my stride!
Suddenly I realise that Pagan Purple's mauve eyes have been boring into me since September the 10th! No wonder I'm weak at the knees with electric currents throbbing deep in my mysterious belly parts. Giving myself a brisk mental slap, I lead him to the rope aisle.
'Here you are, Archbishop Purple,' I say, in what I hope is a nonchalant tone.
'You are most kind, Miss Boron,' he replies, another privy smile lurking on his sculpted lips. In the background I catch sight of another oddball. He seems to be wearing a cassock trimmed with squirrel fur. Some desperate lay clerk from Liverpool, I expect. Poor fellow.
Pagan Purple begins to finger a length of rope knowledgeably with his long forefingers. 'Do you have anything more...' he hesitates, eyeing me lingeringly '...more silken, perhaps?'
'Silken?' I blurt. Holy Pontefract cakes! What is it about this man that makes me blush and blurt like this?
'No matter,' he says. 'I'll take three metres of this, please, Miss Boron. I'm sure it will prove more than... adequate... for my purposes.'
And what purposes might those be? I want to ask, but daren't.
'Doing some DIY, are you, Archbishop?' I ask inanely instead.
'Oh yes, Miss Boron. I will be doing it myself. I like to be in control.' Once again his hand strays to his WWJD riding crop, in case the reader hasn't been concentrating.
Then we walk back to the till, he pays, and I put the goods in a carrier bag peremptorily, because I can't be fagged to dramatise everything in this narrative.
'Au revoir, Miss Boron,' he says Frenchly.
'Tarra,' I reply commonly.
A moment later, I hear the sound of his lilac helicopter taking off. Once more my heart pounds. Where is all this heading? I wonder. I ponder the problem until I've tied myself in knots...
TO BE CONTINUED WHEN SOMEBODY GIVES ME A COPY OF THE ORIGINAL....