I told him what a coincidence, Harold, you calling on the very day I finished the new one, gosharooty, how ’bout that, I’ll send it out FedEx, you’ll have it tomorrow. Harold assured me solemnly that there was no coincidence about it, that where his writers were concerned, he was telepathic. Then he congratulated me and hung up. Two hours later I received his bouquet—every bit as fulsome and silky as one of his Jimmy Hollywood ascots.
@Bag of Bones ▫𓂃
(echo:: @ ⌗)