Books

- Why are we here again? I mean, I don’t mind now we’re all together, I find it rather cosy.

- Can’t say old bean, but it is better than rubbing shoulders with all the other unread classics in that draughty hallway.

- Yes, it’s nice to slide up against the sexy coffee table number written by that famous singer. I notice that the lady of the house moves it from time to time depending on the type of guest.

- Try being a coffee table book, mate. I haven’t been leafed for years. I am a totem, regardless of what racy nonsense lies within my folds. I have more in common with the knick-knacks on the sideboard.

- You think you’ve got problems. Have a go at being a bog book, sitting for hours on the top of a cold, damp cistern waiting for someone to expose their backside and then continue to disdainfully peruse the first page. Notably, no one ever gets as far as to find out why E=mc2.

- I think they’ve got a book with a corkscrew in it. It’s not even a book. Callously hollowed out as it is to provide literary based amusement during wine and cheese evenings.

- Why are we here again?

- They haven’t touched us in years. It’s all that flappy snap of those tablets and that weird pallid glow on their vapid faces.

- I suppose the field of intellectual operations is wider on that big TV.

- Er, this is all a bit odd, we’re arranged in a sort of pyramid. And we’re outside.

- Yes, and what’s that glow? That one small light getting closer and closer?

- That’s a flame, buddy. That’s from a match. I should know, I’m a 1970s science textbook; a veteran.

- I am a history tome. This is not good.