- Published on Wednesday, 30 November -0001 01:30
- Written by Rhynhardt Krynauw
Text. The lack thereof is somewhat demoralising. Especially with that bloody cursor flashing at me.
Flash. Flash. Flash. It’s like the electronic equivalent of someone passive-agressively standing in line behind you tapping their foot. Tap. Tap. Tap. Flash. Flash.
Now, I’m pretty sure I’m in no position to bitch about writer’s block. This little text message I have to write, once every two weeks, in a space the size of a Chappies wrapper, is hardly a novel.
Flash. Flash. Flash. We go to print in 34 minutes. I reckon this is how stream-of-consciousness writing originated; people had deadlines, nothing to say and pages to fill.
Grandmaster Flash. 22 Minutes.
Oh well. It’s not like you paid any kind of money to read this column. So I don’t even feel that guilty.
Have a good week, Y’all.