‘WLTM: Pretty, sweet fairy with slightly damaged wings; access to own Tale Weaving equipment and ability to drink like a trout in a puddle of shallow sorrow under a dripping wet sky laden with existential angst; GSOH; no Melodramatics need apply. Failing all of the above: strange freak/weirdo from wrong side of the bracken, of no fixed lineage or state of wing disrepair (however, must have at least rudimentary access to Tale Weaving equipment — even if it’s somebody else’s and used in the middle of the night by excessive creeping around following breaking and entering and without prior permission). Apply to: PO Box 3333, 63rd Knobbly Stump on the Left, East 98th Mole Furrow, Forest of the Hopelessly Lost . . .’
‘Nah,’ said Sal Oberon, screwing up the paper he’d just scribbled on and breaking the first Golden Rule of the Guild of Master Storytellers: never, ever throw away any story, no matter how crap. Sal Oberon threw it out of the window.
‘What’s this?’ came a haggard old voice from outside, and after a few moments of concentrated consideration, the voice shouted out, ‘Bloody hippies. Sitting on your arses all day writing bollocks. Get out of the house and meet people, Loser Boy . . . Get a life!!’
With that the little old and mentally unstable fairy, with her tightly buttoned-up overcoat on, shuffled off to hassle a couple of homeless goblins who were obviously up to no good, lying around pretending to be apathetic and waiting to be verbally abused by someone.