It’s Friday night. 21:15 to be precise. With just two hours and forty five minutes left in the day, the editor of Good Morning walks into the office.
“Where is this week’s Friday Pint post?” he asks.
“I haven’t written it yet,” I reply, before he asks me why not. I tell him that I’m not really in the mood to do any writing, and if I did, it would probably be a half-assed attempt, and I didn’t make any notes, so I’d be making it all up anyway.
“Why don’t you just make something up?” the editor asks.
“Because that wouldn’t be right” I tell him.
The editor tells me to write something, and leaves the room. I try to find something to write about one of the beers I drank during the day. I neglected to take any notes, all I have is memory, and vague memories don’t seem enough for a post. I decided to miss another deadline and suffer the consequences.
The Friday Pint will return soon. (1988)