Over-descriptive author almost sued for wasting readers' time

When crime-writer Jeffrey Biggins woke up Sunday morning, he would have hardly expected to be sued. Sunday to him meant a day of relaxation, a day of lazing around by his indoor pool, which was a shiny blue, a not-so-much-of-a-contrast against the white-blue early morning sky. For Biggins, the day began like any other Sunday, and he woke up and looked down at his beak-like nose and whatever else he could see of his face. At 45, Biggins still could pass for a 43-year old and his jet black hair made it impossible for one to guess his age, unless you looked at the skin behind his ears or something. His deep green-grey eyes were quick to miss a trick and were embellished by his black bushy eyebrows. He was not what one could call handsome but he did have that unmistakable quality of non-handsomeness about him. Biggins let out a low whistle for no apparent reason.

Little did he know what news the mail would bring him that Sunday. He changed to a double breasted suit, from his white-yellow pajamas with blue stripes, which were black near the feet due to differential rates of washing by the new washing machine that he had purchased recently. The steel grey washing machine shone in the morning sun, a symbol of the sweeping changes in his life. Not bad for someone who did not have a washing machine before buying one, thought Biggins- a slap in the face of those who ridiculed new washing machine buyers. He smiled wryly at the thought

Biggins' mail took a different route that Sunday, via 24th street, cutting across to 15th, down two blocks, then a left and there it was, at Biggins' doorstep. Biggins shivered out of context, as the icy cold breeze did not actually blow into his bedroom through the tightly shut windows. These windows were a crimson red, in stark contrast to his skin colour which was a lighter shade. It was a symbol of an era gone by, of technology, weird architecture, tectonic and sociological changes, and intolerably bad music. Biggins smiled wryly for the second time in a couple of minutes.

He proceeded to open his fan mail; in particular, a letter that was written on a glistening white sheet of paper with startling orange borders. It was an unpleasant letter from a reader who threatened to sue him for 'never getting to the point and getting mixed up in verbose irrelevant descriptions' in all his novels. She claimed to have spent over 5 hours reading the first chapter of his latest offering 'Death on page 978' and wanted those hours refunded as soon as possible. Biggins grinned toothily, a luxury he allowed himself when his wryness dried up. He made a mental note to respond to this reader. This reader no doubt was a middle-aged woman with strong jaws, a sharp eagle-like nose, and green-black eyes, Biggins surmised with absolutely no basis. This woman would not be attractive in the conventional sense, but there would be that quality of unmistakableness about her, which would have drawn many men to her in her life. For a fleeting moment, Biggins could identify with what she had been through.

He made himself a cup of steaming hot coffee which scalded the crap out of his mouth. This Sunday was going to be different, he thought as he laughed noiselessly and looked at his beak-nose at a different angle this time, in the reflection on the coffeemaker's silver surface, which glistened in the late morning sun.

- Our special correspondent