A sequence of short term repairs

Drizzle. A depressingly English way to start a story.

The intermittent drip of water onto the corrugated plastic roof of a conservatory which should have been fixed properly when you had the money and is now, like so much else, a sequence of short term repairs, which would be a reasonable title for an autobiography but probably not a terribly good one.

Autobiographies need either puns or inspiring one word titles. Inspiring abstract nouns. If your autobiography starts with an apology then you’re already on the back foot.

Or, at the very least, you’ve planted the idea in your reader’s mind that you are, somehow, a loser. No-one really gets self-deprecation any more. It used to be charming, didn’t it? That’s what I used to think. We’ve become, I don’t know, Americanised,I suppose, though that seems unfair. Rather, we’ve responded to a perception of America, celebrating the loud and thrusting. The phallic path to success, being the biggest dick in the room. None of this is news, of course, it’s a tired rehashing of well worn tropes.

“Which is why ‘A sequence of short term repairs’ would be the perfect title for your autobiography, and why no-one would buy it. This is fifth rate thinking. Who even are you?”

I stopped, with a start. I was in her office, I could tell from the ridiculous depth of the carpet. The Editor was looking over the top of her half-moon spectacles. Her hair looked amazing. On her desk was a photo of her and her husband jet-skiing somewhere blue. I wondered how they’d managed to compose it. I hadn’t realised I’d been thinking out loud. I hadn’t even realised that I’d come to her office.

“You don’t remember?” I asked

“Don’t have time to” she replied. “Now fuck off.”