Melbourne Writers Festival blog

Hey there,

I wear pants. I hope you do too. There, our mutual pant-wearingness should be enough to create a rapport between us. If not, I sometimes don a cardigan. Its green.

Apparently I am a writer. I discovered this as I wandered along Swanston Street a couple of days ago. The Melbourne weather was seasonably unseasonable and I had been fortunate enough to be wearing pants. As I walked, I became acutely aware that a pigeon had been following me for several blocks. I kept my stroll set firmly to nonchalant, doing my best to pretend it wasn’t there, but every time I glanced over my shoulder a ridiculing coo emanated from my avian stalker. I telephoned my friend Lily. She owns a budgerigar and I was hoping she could use it as an intermediary between myself and the following bird. She insisted it was probably a number of pigeons and not the same one following me every where I went. I suggested that perhaps it was just the one pigeon who was amazingly adept at using mirrors. The dull beep of the dial tone was her only response.

I heard a fluttering of wings approaching from behind me and I quickly ducked into the doorway of a cafe. The bird pigeoned into the doorway, blocking my escape. Peck-mate. My throat began to clog with anxiety. A waitress pushed past me carrying a plate with two poached eggs on it. I grabbed one off the toast, and thrust it at arms length towards the pigeon. I warned the bird that I would crush my hostage if it didn’t move away from the door. The people in the cafe all burst into applause and I overheard an elderly woman commenting that the drama department of the VCA was putting out some marvelous modern pieces of late. When I looked at the doorway, the pigeon had vanished. I pocketed the egg and made my escape.

I upgraded my jog to a sprint as I crossed the street into Federation Dodecahedron. The pigeon was already there. He had brought friends, or more mirrors, I couldn’t tell. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the viscous remnants of avian ovum to ward off my winged torturer. As I marched towards the bird, a girl who was all teeth and no smile blocked my path and pushed a newspaper into the hand covered in bird mucous. I gripped the broadsheet she offered.

It was the program guide for the Melbourne Writers Festival. I grinned, thanked the girl, and sat down next to a man with a dog that I hoped had an appetite for poultry. I ripped the staples from the spine and started to lay out the sheets of paper in front of me. A shadow loomed over the pages and I looked up to see a rosy cheeked woman smiling down at me. She asked if I liked the program. I replied that it was exactly what I had been looking for. I tried to explain that the program was perfect for my plan of creating a large pigeon suit from the tattered shreds, so that I could successfully infiltrate pigeon society, thus bringing it down from the inside. She cut off my explanation and complemented my enthusiasm. She then inquired as to whether I had any experience as a writer.

My eyeballs searched my forehead for an answer. My only involvement with the literary world to date was my work as a freelance bookmark on the train. This involved placing my whole hand in a commuter’s book whilst prostrating myself  on the unintentionally adhesive floor of the train. The money wasn’t great, but I was told the prestige made up for it. I simply said to the woman that I worked very closely with books. This seemed to please her enormously. She introduced herself as Rosemary, the Director of the festival, and asked if I would like to write in the official festival blog. I asked her if I would need a special pen for that. She laughed and gave me her business card.

So far I have been into eight different stationery stores and not one of them stocks markers that write on blogs. I had better find some soon, as the Melbourne Writers Festival is but a few days away. My pants are already fizzing in anticipation.

My cardigan however, seems totally nonplussed.

by Frenchelbow