Unlisted, naturally

The thing about a private number insistently flashing up on your mobile phone screen despite two prior rejections on your part is that it can bring about such a sense of anticipation, such expectation. Despite yourself. Despite hoping being the very thing you deliberately strive against. To answer, third time round, and be disappointed, naturally.

Or, conversely – as one must surely wish – the other way round. But at this point, naturally, naturalness will show you how even she, has her limits.

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Bad book

Homework, today, was to search for “a bad book” to bring in the coming week. That, and to think about ways in which to better it.

It really isn’t my fault I immediately thought of a coffee table hardback, a beautifully produced, tasteful pornography-picture book, every inch the glossy, page-turning wonder many a coffee table book is. A charming collection of artwork of the human anatomy, really, in vast and astonishing contortions, proportions, compromising situations. Yes, a book of that nature would indeed present itself to be a bad, bad book.

And the way in which to better it?

Some form of highly sophisticated accompanying sound effects at every turn of page.

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Eats, Shoots and Leaves

...has got to be one of the funniest books on punctuation I have read yet. With the amount of style guides and other such titillating literature I have been gnawing through with only the stars in the sky for company, Lynne Truss’ Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation has gotten me chuckling into the wee hours of my now-and-forevermore nerdy editor-to-be-fingers-crossed nights. The importance of commas, say, is incomparable. But I’ll let those “friendly little tadpoley number-nine dot-with-a-tail[s]” and friends convince you themselves:

A woman, without her man, is nothing.
A woman: without her, man is nothing.

That’s right boys, take note. Girls being the pedantic and cunning creatures that are may, some fine day when you’re not looking, write you a “Dear Jack” letter, saying:

Dear Jack,
I want a man who knows what love is all about. You are generous, kind, thoughtful. People who are not like you admit to being useless and inferior. You have ruined me for other men. I yearn for you. I have no feelings whatsoever when we’re apart. I can be forever happy – will you let me be yours?
Jill

…which really, through careful inspection and reading under special lighting, you discover in secret ink an altered-punctuation version of the letter which reads:

Dear Jack,
I want a man who knows what love is. All about you are generous, kind, thoughtful people, who are not like you. Admit to being useless and inferior. You have ruined me. For other men I yearn! For you I have no feelings whatsoever. When we’re apart I can be forever happy. Will you let me be? Yours,
Jill

I already know I’m a nit-picking, pedant of a stickler. Should I be worried that I’m turning into a boring weed of a nit-picking, pedant of a stickler-editor-to-be-fingers-crossed?