In response to my enthusiasm for The Interrogative Mood: A Novel? (see yesterday's post) some have suggested that a book consisting entirely of answers might be better than a book of questions. I wonder?
Forty seven. Second shelf down on the right. I prefer tigers. With a baseball bat please. Along the A370 and then turn left in Congresbury. Yellow. Seven thirty for seven forty five. Only if you are sure the cat is really dead. Next Tuesday. £7.49. No. No. No. Yes. Possibly. No. Definitely not. I've told you once. You cannot believe how offended I am by that question. Me. Simon Cowell. It needs more oregano. Drummer Man by Tonight. You get used to them after about a fortnight. In a car accident when I was fourteen. Pulp Fiction. It's an Acer. The Surreal McCoy but I haven't seen the second half of the week yet. Flight Lieutenant. He burnt it. Under the patio. A bit like chicken.
Maybe the fun is the questions that are begged. But a whole book of it?