The Cautionary Tale of a Young Doodler

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The Cautionary Tale of a Young Doodler

The Cautionary Tale of a Young Doodler

 

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The Dead Husbands Club

‘By the sweat of your face you shall eat bread until you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken and to dust you shall return. Amen.’ Father Smogg makes the sign of the cross over the coffin and throws a handful of dust into the grave. The service is over.
The congregation gathered here to pay respects to the recently deceased looks relieved. Thanks God this was short, Lucinda reads in the mourners’ faces. They’re filing past her, shaking her hand, telling her how sorry they are, wishing her luck, then quietly leaving with a kind word or two about her husband she’s sure nobody really means. Soon only the front row, the neighbours and the business associates who owed the dearly departed money, are left. There’s a wake to go to.

Chapter 1

The death of Lucinda’s husband brought joy into Lucinda’s life. She herself would later say that Tony’s demise was the beginning of the life she was meant to have, the life she had always secretly wanted but never told anyone about ‘cause there was no point in bringing it up while she was married to Tony. Tony himself would not have disputed her claim, had it ever been made, ‘cause essentially, Lucinda’s opinions didn’t matter. At the time of his death, Lucinda’s feelings, desires, needs and wants were the furthest thing on his mind as Lucinda had long ceased to interest him in any tangible, material way; after fifteen years of marriage he simply viewed her as a handy household pet, well trained and with predictable responses, and he’d have been much surprised to know that Lucinda was unhappy in their relationship. The idea to ask her had never even entered his mind.
Tony was a man of simple desires. Set in his ways, he saw his life as a chain of meticulously planned and well executed orderly events designed to keep him happy. In this scheme of things, his marriage was nothing but a well-oiled cog in the clockwork.
Tony’s idea of marriage was straight forward. An old-fashioned kind of husband, Tony expected an obedient wife, a home-cooked meal and a clean house. He worked hard for what he got, Tony did, and what he got he deserved — a clean house, a home-cooked meal and an obedient wife. Apart from this, his one desire was to be left alone on the weekends.
Tony’s weekends were spent watching footy. Lucindaah! Tony would shout from the living room where he lay on the couch cracking nuts. Bring me a beer, will you? And Lucinda jumped to it ‘cause that’s how it was from the day they got married to the day Tony died.
The day Tony died was a Sunday. Traditionally, Sunday in Tony’s household was a day of rest. For Tony, who spent it on the couch in the same manner he spent his Saturday — watching footy. For Lucinda, Sunday traditionally was a busy and aggravating day ‘cause there were Tony’s shirts to iron and his favourite dinner to cook — a tedious, drawn out affair with piles of food made just the way Tony liked it and starring homemade sausages, which Tony insisted Lucinda cook from scratch.
The day Tony carked it was no different, for either of them.
‘Lucindaah!’ Tony shouted from the living room where he lay on the couch cracking nuts. ‘Bring me a beer, will you?’
In the kitchen, Lucinda, emitting a sigh, rolled her eyes heavenwards. Elbows deep in sausage meat, she’s busy, busy kneading these stinking sausages Tony insists they have every Sunday.
‘Lucindaah!’ shouts Tony. There’s an intensity to his tone, this time. ‘The beer! NOW!’
Lucinda closes her eyes briefly, gathering herself, gathering her determination to grin and bear it for the good of the afternoon, herself, Tony and their wretched existence together, and all these Sundays she has endured for so long. Only a few hours and it’ll be over, she tells herself; only the footy, the dinner and the evening movie to get through, she thinks projecting herself into the future, into Monday, when she will be alone, cleaning the house and making a home-cooked meal on her own in the welcome, luxurious peace and quiet of Tony’s absence.
Next door, in the living room where the curtains are drawn against the afternoon sun, Tony’s lying on the couch, watching footy on television and precariously balancing a bowl of peanuts on his beer gut. It isn’t an easy task; Tony’s bulging belly button is seriously in the way and may soon cause the bowl to topple and the peanuts to spill. So Tony’s being careful; he wouldn’t want to have Lucinda sweeping up the mess in the middle of the first half, just as it’s getting exciting. So he’s being careful, hardly daring to breathe, waiting for his beer to arrive. The game goes into a commercial, a beer ad of all things, which reminds him.
‘What are you doing in there, woman?’ Tony shouts, grabbing onto the bowl of peanuts just in time. His massive belly button, obscenely huge and almost translucent but for the few grey hairs — yeah, Tony’s getting on — sprouting there on the sides and down his belly, moves, propelling the bowl upwards and to the side. So Tony catches it and puts the bowl down on the coffee table. He sinks back into the couch, and fumes, steaming with anger and vapor ‘cause he is annoyed and ‘cause it is hot in the room.
Tony’s sweating like a hog though he’s not wearing much, just a pair of old Y-fronts which, due to their age and Tony’s reclining pose, are tightly drawn over his tiny small penis but sagging under his great big ass, right under the stain that just won’t go, no matter what Lucinda does with it in the wash. She’s long wanted to replace these unsightly undergarments but Tony won’t have it, is sentimental about them ‘cause they’re his favourite undies to watch footy in, so what’s your problem, woman? asks Tony whenever this topic arises between them, which is often, nearly every time it’s hot. Even today, though Lucinda has said nothing, Tony knows she’s thinking about his underpants ‘cause she’s got that grimace on, those pinched nostrils, which disapprove of him. And the beer is still nowhere to be seen.
Tony gets up, determined to get some answers. She’d better have a good excuse, fumes Tony, ambling towards the kitchen. Maybe she’s dead. She’s awfully quiet in there… thinks Tony, calculating the chances in all seriousness ‘cause it’s really the only thing that would go some way towards explaining why his beer has not arrived.
The kitchen door is ajar. He gives it a shove with his foot and pokes his head tentatively into the interior, expecting to see a calamity of some kind. But nothing out of the ordinary has happened in the kitchen; Lucinda’s carrying on as she always does on Sundays, making sausages.
She has a nerve, Tony thinks, flaring his nostrils into his own disapproving grimace. He could give her a piece of his mind, he could, but he’s determined to rise above it this time ‘cause it’s Sunday and he doesn’t want to spoil his mood; after all, it’s his favourite day — the footy’s on, he’s wearing his favourite undies and he’s gonna have those yummy sausages for dinner. Just thinking about the sausages makes him happy; Tony’s tension is easing and he’s taking a deep breath to savour the kitchen aroma.
To Tony, the sausage meat Lucinda’s making smells delicious; it’s raw and pungent, it smells like a fart — which reminds him… Tony recognizes an opportunity here and decides to get his beer himself. He waddles over to the fridge, opens it, peers in, farts (audibly), takes a bottle out, shuts the fridge door, farts (louder this time), twists the bottle top open and takes a swig. Farts again, a long and drawn one with a stink so strong and unpleasant even Tony’s surprised. He didn’t realize he had it in him, this early in the day, and he looks over his shoulder at Lucinda to see her reaction. She’s busy with her meat grinder, looking like death warmed up.
‘What’s your problem?’ he asks, annoyed at her silence. Stupid cow, has no sense of humour. God, she’s getting on, thinks Tony, noting the lines around Lucinda’s tightly closed mouth, the slight sag in her jaw, the crow’s feet around her eyes. She’s putting it on, too. Tony lets out a sigh of disappointment. And she used to be so bonny, thinks Tony, remembering a much younger, much bonnier Lucinda when she was a perky-breasted young thing who used to make him laugh. Ah, but she’s long gone, thinks Tony, looking at Lucinda’s closed, disapproving face.
‘You got something to say?’ Tony asks. He might just be spoiling for a wee little fight to enliven the afternoon. Tony likes to argue with Lucinda; it gives him the opportunity to tell her a few home truths, to really let her know how he’s feeling about her these days, and for good reason too. But today Tony is feeling a wee bit tired. Maybe later, thinks Tony, multitasking in the middle of this contemplation; he’s glugging his beer and scratching his ass — right on the stain — and managing all this time to scrutinize his wife who, he knows, is quite aware how he feels about her these days. ‘I thought so,’ he mutters when Lucinda declines to comment; instead she opens the pantry, turning her back on him, defiantly it seems to Tony who’s filing this gesture of disrespect for later. He knows Lucinda’s transgression, her turning her back on him, will cost her dearly later on this evening when they finish their Sunday with a wee little argument. Tony will triumph of course; poor old charmless Lucinda will cry. Tony’s quite looking forward to it but right now he has other diversions on his mind so he leaves and returns to the living room, to his sanctuary where the curtains are drawn, the couch is still warm and the second half is about to start.
In the pantry, Lucinda breathes a sigh of relief. The sight of Tony makes her literally sick and the sound of his voice makes her want to drown herself. But Lucinda has developed a coping mechanism over the years; a moment of silence in the pantry is all she needs. A transient thought of a life lived long ago and left behind flits through her consciousness; she sees herself as a young girl, pretty, carefree, laughing on the arm of a handsome young man (not Tony), going out to spend the day in the company of people she likes. But it is a transient thought and it stays true to its nature. Lucinda wipes her hands on her apron, grabs her good luck charm necklace and begins the ritual. She fingers her charms, one by one: the heart, the unicorn, the book, the star, the clock, the bicycle, the seahorse, the thimble… Lucinda’s fingers are looking for the thimble, her most recent acquisition, the newest and biggest charm she’s had but it’s gone. Oh dear, I’ve lost the thimble, but what can I do about it now? I’m gonna have to look for it later, sighs Lucinda and goes on with the ritual, fingering the next charm, a tiny pair of ballet slippers — for the baby girl she used to wish for — and taking deep breaths. She’s feeling okay now; even the feel of those ballet slippers doesn’t upset her; she’s grown out of that desire. In fact, Lucinda’s grateful there’s been no children born to her out of this marriage, and she counts it as a blessing. It would have been awful bringing up children in this household, Lucinda thinks every time her fingers touch the tiny silver shoes, and it gives her comfort. She’s calm now and quite determined to get through the afternoon. Lucinda gathers the few remaining ingredients to finish her sausage mixture and leaves the pantry.
A few hours later, the Sunday dinner is taking place. Tony and Lucinda sit in the dining room — at opposite ends of the long dining table acquired long ago right after their wedding when things were good and children (lots) were on the cards — eating their dinner. The room is filled with the setting sun and the background noise of the Sunday night news. Tony’s chewing is front of house — unmissable, unpleasant and crucial to the proceedings; the intensity of Tony’s chewing indicates his level of enjoyment of the much anticipated Sunday dinner. A lot depends on this and Lucinda knows it. She’s eating her sausage though she’d rather stick to the mashed potatoes and the Brussels sprouts; she loathes these sausages but it would be unwise to let it show so she doesn’t. Lucinda has wised up over the years and for that reason Tony does not suspect a thing; he’s chewing furiously, wolfing down his eight’s sausage and his third helping of mashed potatoes, and a pile of Brussels sprouts saturated with gravy, and he’s doing all right; he’s in heaven, things couldn’t get any better except he’d like another beer. He gives Lucinda the nod and bangs his fist on the table to get her going. His mouth, his stomach and his lungs are full to bursting; Tony’s unable to speak as usual at this point, but nothing needs to be said. He wants his beer. Lucinda knows, is quite aware of the routine so she puts down her cutlery and leaves the table.
Lucinda enters the kitchen. The room is ablaze with light. The setting sun had snuck in through the open window while she was gone and worked its magic to surprise her. And Lucinda is surprised; the space looks so pretty, so warm and inviting, so full of light, Lucinda feels so… she doesn’t know what she’s feeling but knows it’s good and she wants to keep on feeling it. She takes a couple of steps and now she’s in the middle of the room, feeling good. A gust of wind shuts the door behind her, not loudly, only just so. It would be an easy sound to miss if one were not listening.
Lucinda didn’t hear it. She stands in the middle of her kitchen — that drab, dreaded room in which she spends most of her time — thinking how pretty the orange glow, thinking she’d like to look out the window for a bit ‘cause the sunrays dancing about the walls are making her dizzy. But Tony wants his beer, the little voice inside her head whispers, is tugging on her conscience, so Lucinda takes a reluctant step towards the fridge. Just then, she hears something.
She hears music and it’s coming from the window. It’s pipes and drums and trumpets; A marching band! Lucinda exclaims and rushes to the window to look. It is a marching band, complete with pipes and drums and trumpets, playing a familiar tune. Oh, when the saints go marching in … Oh, when the saints go marching in …
There’s red uniforms and silly hats; How pretty! Lucinda exclaims. There’s children running alongside the band; a crowd has gathered and it seems the whole street is out in full force. Lucinda is intrigued; she sticks her head out the window and forgets, for the moment, everything else that’s going on in her life right now.
In her life right now Tony is getting hot under the collar, back in the living room where his Sunday dinner is in progress. He’s down to his tenth’s sausage and getting low on the gravy. The Brussels sprouts are few and far in between, and Tony’s throat is dry. Very dry. Tony’s Sunday is not going according to plan.
Where is that hag with my beer? fumes Tony, chewing furiously, wolfing down his tenth’s sausage. What does a man have to do to get a drink in his own house? Tony grumbles, feeling dry, full to bursting, thirsty and disrespected, on top of everything else. I’m really gonna have to sort her out; Tony bangs his fist on the table with a tremendous force. The gravy boat jumps, falls off the edge of the dining room table, and shatters to bits on the polished parquetry. A small but dense stain is spreading towards the carpet’s edge; dear Lord, it’s reached the fringe! The carpet is officially stained.
‘Lucindaah!’ Tony roars just as the marching band passes by his front lawn. The din is deafening. Tony shoves the last piece of sausage and potato mash into his gob. ‘Lucin—’ Tony chokes. He chokes on the word, the sausage, the potato, the gravy that’s run out and the beer he never got. It’s the real deal, Tony is dying and it’s going down like they show it in the movies. First, he grips the table with both hands, bends over, tries to cough it out. No sound comes. Next, he lets go of the table, grasps his throat with both hands. Nothing happens. He keeps on choking. He’s choking on the sausage, the potatoes, the gravy that’s run out, the beer he never got and every single thing that’s ever made him angry and hateful, and it all comes down to one thing: Lucinda!
Tony’s eyes begin to bulge; it really looks like he’s in awe of the objects surrounding him; the plate, the cutlery thrown carelessly over his napkin, the bowl of potatoes, the bowl of sausages… The veins on Tony’s forehead are pulsating; his head is swimming and his last thought is about to occur. Sausages… thinks Tony, sadly but without regret, who would have thought? He keels over, pulling down the table cloth. The man crashes to the ground like a sack of beans, sags like a bag of wet clothes and lies still, blue-faced, slack-jawed and with eyes wide open, at the foot of his dining table, wearing nothing but a pair of threadbare, stained undies.

The Dead Husbands by Ivana Hruba is now available to download from Smashwords for free.

Also from Barnes and Noble, Kobo, Sony, Apple, Diesel and elsewhere on the net where good books are sold.

The Long Lunch, the Man of Constant Sorrow and the Remains of the Cheese

The Long Lunch, the Man of Constant Sorrow and the Remains of the Cheese

Three tragically amusing short stories revealing the pitfalls of marriage, friendship and romance after forty.

The Long Lunch - A slightly scandalous tale revealing the trials and tribulations of online dating for women over forty

…You’re divorced and over it. Been over it for a while, and you’re ready to meet someone new NOW. Someone completely, utterly new. A person from a different walk of life, preferably well-heeled, with no commitments, and no baggage ‘cause you deserve nothing less after all you’ve been through. But where do you meet a person, a real man, like that? It could be tricky ‘cause you’re in your mid-forties, and haven’t dated for nigh twenty years. Regardless, you have started looking. At work, and around your neighbourhood where, you realize, there’s simply no-one around worth the effort. So you widen the search, you’re contemplating going cyber where you could join a dating site. Apparently it’s great — you’ve heard, but not from anyone you know. Still, all those testimonials can’t be wrong; this just might be worth a try …

The Man of Constant Sorrow - A very public and altogether sordid tale of a 40th birthday celebration taking place at the races

… So. Your bestie is turning 40. Today. It’s half past two on a Saturday arvo and you and her and six other of her besties are piling into a maxi taxi, which seems pretty clean but still quite short of the splendor of the stretch limo you originally planned. However, the Event has been scaled down; four women were unable to make it due to family commitments of the usual Saturday afternoon kind, regardless of the six weeks’ notice. So. Out with the limo — ‘cause it would cost too much split between just seven people — and in with the maxi taxi, which is full to bursting with … mayhem you quietly observe, noting the time and thinking it’s a bit too early for the champagne. But champagne it is …

The Remains of the Cheese - A savory tale of bedroom secrets, moral dilemmas and the reckless consumption of far too many bottles of very cheap champagne

… You have this friend you meet with once a week. You’ve been friends for years, met a long time ago when you were both first-time mothers at a local playgroup. You just happened to enter the community hall at the same time, bumped into each other at the door. The kids were wearing the same outfit (Thomas the Tank Engine, a t-shirt and shorts ensemble with a hat thrown in) and it was as good a conversation starter as any. The kids have since grown apart, found new friends at their school but you’ve stuck at it despite your fickle kids who, let’s face it, haven’t been the focus of your friendship for years now. Playgroup dead and buried, you’ve kept up the deal on the strength of the wine and cheese evenings you take turns to host at each other’s houses when your husbands are out …

The Tale of A Worthy Albeit Slightly Flatulent Young Man, and No Other Stories

The Tale of a Worthy Albeit Flatulent Young Man and No Other Stories

A fragrant account of one man's struggle to succeed against incredible odds. (Inspirational)

Cursed with a stupid name and an embarrassing condition — TMG/CEFD (Too Much Gas/Continual Excessive Flatulence Disorder) otherwise known as F.L.A.T.U.L.E.N.C.E Disorder (Fetid, Loud, Abominably Turbulent & Utterly Lethal, Extremely Noxious Current (wind) Expulsion Disorder) commonly referenced as FLATULENCE, Jesus Kryst was a thoroughly unfortunate man. Farting uncontrollably all the time, Jesus suffered ridicule, bad luck and persecution, and was about to throw in the towel when he discovered the power of the fart and turned his life around.

This fragrant and inspirational account of one man’s struggle to succeed against incredible odds is sure to bring a tear to your eye and a scented hankie to your nose. Illustrated by the author whose vivid imagination and sledgehammer wit has become legendary to her fans (4), The Tale of a Worthy Albeit Slightly Flatulent Young Man is well worth the $0.99 download fee. Enjoy!

Solicited testimonials:

Aromatic and pungent … Fan Number 1

A tour de force to be reckoned with ... Fan Number 2

The truth reeks … Fan Number 3

Deliciously putrid … Fan Number 4

A stinking tale … A randomly approached reader who is NOT a fan

Featured in the collection of amusing short stories titled The English Patient, Dr Zhivago and the Purposeful Stride, and Other Stories now available to download from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Smashwords, Apple and everywhere else on the net for a very reasonable price.

 Let me know what you thought, cheers xo

The English Patient, Dr Zhivago and the Purposeful Stride, and Other Stories

Short Fiction: The English Patient, Dr Zhivago and the Purposeful Stride, and Other Stories

A collection of amusing short stories about the human condition revealing the absurdity of our existence.

Stories appearing in this collection are:

The English Patient, Doctor Zhivago and the Purposeful Stride

The College Girl and the Older Man

I Was Young Once

The Influential Life of Speckly Jim

The Fleeting Nature of True Friendship

The Waiting Room and the Supermarket Trolley

The Dog and the Parrot

The Long Lunch

The Man of Constant Sorrow

The Remains of the Cheese

The Proposal

The Imaginary Lover

Any Man

Suffer the Little Children

The Cautionary Tale of a Young Doodler

The Tale of Desperately Boring Mike

The Tale of the Tall Lady and the Feisty Midget

The Pungent Tale of the Open-Toe Sandal

The Tale of a Worthy Albeit Slightly Flatulent Young Man


Please note: the novels 'The English Patient' and 'Dr Zhivago' are NOT included in this collection of short stories; in fact, they have nothing to do with it.

The Cautionary Tale of a Young Doodler and Other Stories

The Cautionary Tale of a Young Doodler and Other Stories

A collection of letters to Dear Ned, an Agony Aunt with an eye for the bizarre, the unfortunate, the misshapen, and the plain silly.

The Cautionary Tale of a Young Doodler:

P. Casso, an unremarkable young man in charge of phone enquiries in an art gallery, spends his working hours in a pleasant daze doodling aimlessly at his desk until a random drawing lands him in such an unexpected awkward situation, the young man is compelled to write to Dear Ned for advice.

The Tale of Desperately Boring Mike:

Dear Ned is called upon to help desperately boring Mike, a young man who, by his own admission, is desperately boring and consequently has trouble attracting the opposite sex. Will Dear Ned be able to help? He might if he can stay awake long enough to read the entire letter …

The Tale of the Tall Lady and the Feisty Midget:

Dear Ned has to arbitrate when a romance goes awry after a tall lady engaged to a feisty midget with a suspicious mind and unresolved anger management issues begins to doubt their future together.

The Pungent Tale of the Open-Toe Sandal:

When a maid of honour gets demoted to a banquet hall usher at her sister’s wedding due to her foot odour problem, the unfortunate lady turns to Dear Ned for advice, thinking he might be the only one able to help with the embarrassing situation. But could this be the straw that broke the camel’s back for Dear Ned?

To find out the answer to this and the other ‘conundrums’ Dear Ned is facing in this here volume of amusing albeit silly stories, download them NOW and let us know how you liked them. Cheers, Yours Truly

The Interview

In July 2008 Ivana Hruba appeared on the popular television show: Ned's Pearls of Wisdom The Television Show. The interview in its entirety (4.20 mins) is transcribed below. 

In the studio of the famous television show 'Ned's Greatest Reads', Ned, the host, leans seductively toward the author Ivana Hruba seated across the table from him.

Ned (squinting at the cue card in his hand): “So I’m reading here that you’re pretty, witty and very, very talented.”

Ivana: (smiling and casting demure glances like a virgin bride): “Don’t you believe everything you hear, Ned. I wouldn’t say I’m very very talented. Just talented, really.”

Ned (nodding): “I see. It says here that you write, paint, draw cartoons, decoupage, crochet clothes for your dogs and your cat, trim trees into geometrical shapes, dress garden gnomes as characters in Shakespearean plays, fluently gesture in fifty-five languages, make really tiny landscapes in really tiny glass bottles using only toothpicks and moss, organize baby wardrobes for a modest fee and … (here Ned squints closely at the print out) … make nice smelling candles to sell at your local church. That’s very impressive, Ivana.”

Ivana (looking very pleased): “It is, Ned. And I also play the guitar.”

Ned (with just a hint of irony): “Aha. You wouldn’t be a singer too, by any chance, would you?”

Ivana: (a slight blush suffusing her attractive cheeks): “Well, funnily enough, I was in a band for years.”

Ned: “Singing?”

Ivana: “Lead.”

Ned: “Naturally.”

Ivana: “Naturally.” (Here Ivana beams, winking at Ned and raising her brows just so.)

Ned (taking the hint) affords himself an indulgent smile: “And you were successful, I take it?”

Ivana (grinning expectantly at the thought of delivering a witty punch-line): “Well, we made just enough to keep me in waitressing.”

A slight pause follows during which Ned starts to look worried and Ivana eventually stops grinning.

Ivana (tossing her hair playfully): “I’d like to point out that I am no longer in that line of work.”

Ned: “Oh? What made you give it up?”

Ivana: “Popular demand, really.”

Ned: (laughs heartily): “Sorry to hear that. It must have been tough when nobody showed up.”

Ivana (looking pointedly around the empty studio): “I wouldn’t know about that. We had lots of people come to our shows. Loads, really.”

Ned: “So it was a good show then?”

Ivana: “Oh, yes. Well worth the two dollar cover charge. We had queues every night we played.”

Ned: “Really? At the door?”

Ivana: “Well … (looks undecided for a moment then decides to tell the truth) … perhaps I should explain. There were queues at the toilets every pension night because we only played every second Thursday and they wouldn’t let us use the stage so we just set up by the wall between the Ladies and the Men’s but the drummer couldn’t really fit the drum kit in that tiny narrow space so the kit basically barred the toilets on both sides and people had trouble getting in.”

Ned (after a pause during which he stared intently at Ivana sitting across from him): “Right, right. Interesting. So, why didn’t you keep going if you were that popular?”

Ivana: “I wasn’t really comfortable with that kind of exposure. It was too much. People were taking photos and everything.”

Ned (perking up): “What? You did nude photos?”

Ivana (gasping theatrically): “Me? I never!”

Ned: “Why not?”

Ivana: “Nobody asked, if you must know.”

An awkward pause follows during which Ned contemplates why it was that Ivana wasn’t asked to pose nude and Ivana contemplates why Ned would be wondering about that when there are great literary tomes to talk about. The hush is broken when Ned eventually mutters): “Sooo, let us speak about the novels. I would imagine your work is worth a lot to you.”

Ivana: “Well, Ned, I don’t think about it in monetary terms. It’s not viable, really.”

Ned: “Of course, not. You can’t really put a price on those things, can you?”

Ivana: “Oh, I could.”

Ned laughs a wee bit too loud. Leaning slightly forward, he winks at Ivana: “Tell me how much you got for the books.”

Ivana sighs, looking resigned if slightly uncomfortable because she knows she has no choice but to answer - after all, she had promised to give a ‘warts and all’ interview: “Well, I won’t go into details, dear Ned, but I can tell you that the money I’ve already received is well in line with the immense talent I possess and the high profile I enjoy.”

Ned: “Yes, I’ve heard you’re huge on social networking websites. It says here you’ve got about five hundred friends on Ned’s Greatest Reads.”

Ivana beams proudly and casts more demure glances: “Actually, it’s a bit more than that. 538 in total.”

Ned: “Right, right. Interesting. Soo … (Ned nods thoughtfully, swiveling slightly in his swivel chair) … would you say you’re close to these people?”

Ivana (hesitantly): “Well … we’re friends, you know.”

Ned: “Aha. So if you came face to face with one, you’d be okay with that?”

Ivana: “Oh, yeah. I’d be all right. I carry me Mace on me at all times.

Ned picks up a stack of loose papers he had been gathering into a pile during the interview and taps the pile into a neat stack.

Ned: “Well then, Ivana, it’s been a pleasure.” (He beams at the author, extending his hand towards her in a gesture of good-bye.)

Ivana (confusedly): “Huh? So soon? Can we talk about me books?”

Ned: “Sorry, love. We’re out of time.”