The Bogey Man says: TRAAAAAIIIINS
Morning all: I am trundling Londonward from Leicester, having celebrated my father's 85th birthday with the wild party animals of Oadby Launde Rotary Club.
I am not a morning person. Nor, it would seem, are my fellow-passengers on the 05:43: if you've heard the phrase "All the hours God sends", I can now tell you that this train travels in the hours sent by the other lot, and I fully expect to be met at St.Pancras Station by a mob of peasants - pitchforks, torches, and crucifixes held aloft - led by some intrepid member of the clergy who has signed up to a traditionalist view of what to do with an invading army of the undead.
[Update: 0625, Somewhere near Wellingborough]
Screams and clatters and the heavy taste of ozone and scorched hair: the Zombie Train is being zapped into a ghastly parody of life by EMT coffee.
It is, by far, the nastiest coffee I have ever drunk: I hesitate to ask the steward - henceforth referred to as Igor - why a crematorium would start a business roasting coffee beans: sour acidity and aftertastes of formalin and pewter coffin-handles are perfect for invigorating the undead but I can't see a market for it.
Here's a glimpse into the mind of an early-morning Hairyears... I just asked myself how one would market coffee - or whatever product - to the undead. So here's a challenge for a writer with an offbeat sense of humour and a gift for parodying (say) Anita Blake or Twilight: write a sales pitch for a business startup selling *In-Coffin Multimedia Marketing*.
I am definitely going to Hell, on the 05:43 to London.
This is a copy of my post here, on Dreamwidth, which has
comments. OpenID will allow you to comment there from your LiveJournal session: contact me if you have problems.
I am not a morning person. Nor, it would seem, are my fellow-passengers on the 05:43: if you've heard the phrase "All the hours God sends", I can now tell you that this train travels in the hours sent by the other lot, and I fully expect to be met at St.Pancras Station by a mob of peasants - pitchforks, torches, and crucifixes held aloft - led by some intrepid member of the clergy who has signed up to a traditionalist view of what to do with an invading army of the undead.
[Update: 0625, Somewhere near Wellingborough]
Screams and clatters and the heavy taste of ozone and scorched hair: the Zombie Train is being zapped into a ghastly parody of life by EMT coffee.
It is, by far, the nastiest coffee I have ever drunk: I hesitate to ask the steward - henceforth referred to as Igor - why a crematorium would start a business roasting coffee beans: sour acidity and aftertastes of formalin and pewter coffin-handles are perfect for invigorating the undead but I can't see a market for it.
Here's a glimpse into the mind of an early-morning Hairyears... I just asked myself how one would market coffee - or whatever product - to the undead. So here's a challenge for a writer with an offbeat sense of humour and a gift for parodying (say) Anita Blake or Twilight: write a sales pitch for a business startup selling *In-Coffin Multimedia Marketing*.
I am definitely going to Hell, on the 05:43 to London.
This is a copy of my post here, on Dreamwidth, which has
comments. OpenID will allow you to comment there from your LiveJournal session: contact me if you have problems.