I was halfway through a chapter on existentialism by TLS Sprigge , in which I realised I hadn’t understood a single
word, when I saw the postman striding
earnestly up the path. In our district,
first post means quarter past two in the afternoon, so his earnestness was
rather a waste. I ambled into the hall
to pick up the post. Instead of the
usual dreary handful of bills and broadband offers, there lay a white envelope
of such opulence it couldn’t have cost less than forty pence at the stationer's. I picked it up and observed it minutely. It
was addressed to me, no mistake there, but it gave no clue as to the
sender.
I opened it tentatively, as if it might contain something unpleasant, and withdrew a single sheet of paper. The paper was so exquisitely thick the sender must almost have had to fold it with a pair of pliers to get it into the envelope. There were just half a dozen lines of text. I read them. When I had finished, I uttered an exclamation of surprise and let the letter drop to the floor. The message was that a short story that I had sent into a regional writer of the year competition had been awarded either first, second or third prize, and would I care to attend the award ceremony a week hence? The reason for my surprise was that after twenty consecutive years of entering the same competition, I had not won the price of a postage stamp, and here I was, out of a hundred entries, on the cusp of winning it outright. Second or third was no good to me – I was out to win.
The letter stated that I had to read my story to the assembled masses. No problem – after years of public speaking to bored colleagues and other disinterested parties, this was easy meat.
I turned up in a suit and tie. The other forty people in the hall looked like remnants from a chain gang. The judge was a short dumpy woman with dyed black hair through which silver roots were showing. I was called first to the lectern. I boomed out at the audience with cadences reminiscent of the Reverend Ian Paisley. They sat up in great surprise, as if I’d uttered a series of profanities. I could be heard in the next street, never mind the back of the auditorium. I wrung every vestige of emotion out of my tale, and when I had finished, I received a hearty round of applause from the audience.
Next up was a chap in glasses and a beard, who was reading the story on behalf of his wife. He read it out as if articulating an inventory of coal mining equipment. The applause he got was definitely less than mine.
Finally, up to the podium came a short elderly chap in horn-rimmed spectacles. He looked for all the world as if he had stumbled into the hall by mistake, and was about to ask for directions as to how to get out. He perched his spectacles on the end of his nose and started reading. He read in such a quiet monotone that, even with the assistance of a microphone, the audience could only pick up about one word in twenty. I saw one old lady check the batteries in her deaf aid and another old chap was leaning so far forward to try and hear the reader, his elbow slipped off the table and he caught his chin a nasty blow on the edge. The applause the reader received seemed to be of sympathy, rather than adulation. Surely that sort of delivery would scuttle him? The judge stepped up to the lectern and fumbled with the microphone. ‘Such wonderful, evocative stories,’ she almost swooned in admiration. ‘Such quality of writing. It was almost impossible to choose between them. That’s the worst of being a judge. Someone has to do it. Third, and highly commended, is Ronald Hardwick, for his masterly tale of thwarted romance on a train journey.’ I groaned inwardly and uttered an oath under my breath, before shaking hands with the judge and grinning like a deranged Halloween lantern. It turned out that the elderly whisperer had won with a narrative about a grandfather clock. I almost cried out 'Fix' but thought better of it. My prize was a certificate and a gift voucher for ten pounds. As it had cost me eight to enter the competition and a pound for a soft drink on the night, I was only a pound up, hardly worth writing home about.
I didn’t stay till the end. I gathered up my coat as soon as I could and legged it for the exit. As I was leaving a gaunt, bearded chap accosted me and said: ‘That was brilliant. Yours was the only story that kept me gripped from start to finish.’
‘Go tell it to the judge’ I remarked drily as I went on my way. .
I opened it tentatively, as if it might contain something unpleasant, and withdrew a single sheet of paper. The paper was so exquisitely thick the sender must almost have had to fold it with a pair of pliers to get it into the envelope. There were just half a dozen lines of text. I read them. When I had finished, I uttered an exclamation of surprise and let the letter drop to the floor. The message was that a short story that I had sent into a regional writer of the year competition had been awarded either first, second or third prize, and would I care to attend the award ceremony a week hence? The reason for my surprise was that after twenty consecutive years of entering the same competition, I had not won the price of a postage stamp, and here I was, out of a hundred entries, on the cusp of winning it outright. Second or third was no good to me – I was out to win.
The letter stated that I had to read my story to the assembled masses. No problem – after years of public speaking to bored colleagues and other disinterested parties, this was easy meat.
I turned up in a suit and tie. The other forty people in the hall looked like remnants from a chain gang. The judge was a short dumpy woman with dyed black hair through which silver roots were showing. I was called first to the lectern. I boomed out at the audience with cadences reminiscent of the Reverend Ian Paisley. They sat up in great surprise, as if I’d uttered a series of profanities. I could be heard in the next street, never mind the back of the auditorium. I wrung every vestige of emotion out of my tale, and when I had finished, I received a hearty round of applause from the audience.
Next up was a chap in glasses and a beard, who was reading the story on behalf of his wife. He read it out as if articulating an inventory of coal mining equipment. The applause he got was definitely less than mine.
Finally, up to the podium came a short elderly chap in horn-rimmed spectacles. He looked for all the world as if he had stumbled into the hall by mistake, and was about to ask for directions as to how to get out. He perched his spectacles on the end of his nose and started reading. He read in such a quiet monotone that, even with the assistance of a microphone, the audience could only pick up about one word in twenty. I saw one old lady check the batteries in her deaf aid and another old chap was leaning so far forward to try and hear the reader, his elbow slipped off the table and he caught his chin a nasty blow on the edge. The applause the reader received seemed to be of sympathy, rather than adulation. Surely that sort of delivery would scuttle him? The judge stepped up to the lectern and fumbled with the microphone. ‘Such wonderful, evocative stories,’ she almost swooned in admiration. ‘Such quality of writing. It was almost impossible to choose between them. That’s the worst of being a judge. Someone has to do it. Third, and highly commended, is Ronald Hardwick, for his masterly tale of thwarted romance on a train journey.’ I groaned inwardly and uttered an oath under my breath, before shaking hands with the judge and grinning like a deranged Halloween lantern. It turned out that the elderly whisperer had won with a narrative about a grandfather clock. I almost cried out 'Fix' but thought better of it. My prize was a certificate and a gift voucher for ten pounds. As it had cost me eight to enter the competition and a pound for a soft drink on the night, I was only a pound up, hardly worth writing home about.
I didn’t stay till the end. I gathered up my coat as soon as I could and legged it for the exit. As I was leaving a gaunt, bearded chap accosted me and said: ‘That was brilliant. Yours was the only story that kept me gripped from start to finish.’
‘Go tell it to the judge’ I remarked drily as I went on my way. .
