Charlie Walker is a cynical columnist for the Sydney Morning Herald, struggling to find meaning in his work amidst the monotonous grind of his life post-divorce. His favorite coffee shop sanctuary is disrupted one Monday morning by a peculiar man wi...
Reading books is not just a hobby, it is a lifestyle
Chapter One
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So I am sitting here in my favourite coffee shop 8am Monday morning. Tucked away at my favourite table for two in the furthest corner of the shop hoping no other bastard sits near me as I am trying to finish my weekly column for the Sydney morning herald.
As time drags on the shop fills up with office workers and the like, still my table has just me, and deep down I know my fucking luck is about to expire.
Sure enough this dude that resembles Art Garfunkel makes a beeline for the empty chair at my table.
Knowing I had to look up just as he indicates his desire to sit his fat arse at my table. Sure mate go for it I says with a bullshit grin on my face.
Sitting his fat acre down he immediately pulls out a rubber chicken from his inside coat pocket and reaching into the other pocket pulls out a plastic dog shit and drops them both on the table.
Now I am now deep in thought as to why I even bothered getting out of bed this morning as this dude sits there with a stupid cheesy grin on his face just waiting for me to ask him about the fucking chicken and dog shit.
So I says "what's with the chicken and dog shit mate?" as if I had any other option.
OH!! he goes I just love to make people laugh.
So here I sit thinking to myself, as I nod politely, just fucking say it Charlie, just fucking say it.
With a big sigh I says "Mate you're a fucking idiot, you need to get a real job"
With that this Art Garfunkel look alike dude bursts out laughing as I grab my shit and head for the checkout chick only to be greeted with "God he's funny isn't he" Oh yeah I said walking out and it's only Fucking Monday.
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I finally make it to the Herald's office, my mood no better than when I left the coffee shop. The dreary grey office does nothing to lift my spirits. My cubicle, a shrine to monotony, is piled high with papers, notes, and empty coffee cups. I've barely sat down when I hear my name booming across the office. Alexander Marchant, the editor-in-chief, summoning me to his lair.
