Turf Wars

I have written before on the importance of location in literary endeavours and so I know that my readership will understand the hideousness of what I have been forced to suffer this week.

The obvious travesty of having to leave our Tuscan idyll behind at the beginning of the week was alleviated only by the knowledge that I would be returning to my other spiritual home, the reading rooms of the British Library.

And so it was, dear reader, that I found myself trotting happily though the highways and byways of Kentish Town and down to King’s Cross, singing along to Nancy Sinatra and dreaming of my little seat in the corner of Humanities II, one of only very few not to face anyone else. All one can see from it is the Year’s Review of English Studies volumes 1 – 73, which suits me fine. Once installed, I planned to wrap myself in my Florentine cashmere blanket and sit out the spring, finishing the masterpiece, emerging only for light snacks and the occasional sherry.

Imagine my horror when, the first to enter said reading room I sashayed towards Seat 3662 only to be faced by a small sign that said ‘No computers allowed in this area.’

I felt a surge of emotion, the like of which I have not felt since being forced to sit next to Alexander Sibbald in primary school. I let a small but audible snarl. I was cast out of my habitat, exiled, forced to wander like Odysseus himself, in the wastelands of Rare Books and Manuscripts or, heaven forbid, Science and Business Studies.

Immediate action was required. I moved with the speed and instinct of a cheetah to find another place. Out of the corner of my eye I spied a seat and bounded across the room, just in time to park my ass on Seat 3180. Sweating lightly, I set out my computer and prepared to get down to work.

It was not long before I felt the weight of a stare on the back of my neck. I recognised it well. I have been known to distribute such looks myself on the rare occasions when my seat has been poached (unwavering and vicious, with a soupcon of homicidal mania). Someone was looking at me. And someone was looking at him, And so on and so forth. Everyone was shooting dirty glances at each other. And not in a good way. Humanities II had been disturbed like a kicked over anthill and we scurried hither and thither like angry insects, our worker instinct turning sour.

This is how revolutions begin. On the advice of Le Duc, a veteran of the art of Dealing With Authorities, I shall be writing a stern letter to the powers that be, forthwith. And as I know that you will be waiting with bated breath for the outcome, I shall post news as soon as I have it, hopefully that I have been restored to my rightful throne, in the corner, under my blanket, typing like a demon.

The future of modern English literature, as I may have mentioned before, depends on it.