I woke up this morning feeling Monday-ish and literally barren, so to get myself going I set myself a literary exercise: make an acrostic out of an imaginary conversation. You might want to try this at home…
“The Man Who Spoke Acrostic”
On his way to a comedy gig, Zak met a man and a woman on the tram from Piccadilly to Salford Quays.
“Hello,” said Zak, “I’m Zak.”
“Quentin,” said the man, “and this is my wife Celia.”
“What do you do?” asked Zak.
“I speak in acrostics,” said Quentin, “for I am a poet and a linguist.”
“Can you give me an example of your work?” asked Zak.
“Give me a topic,” said Quentin.
“Erm,” said Zak, “How about political correctness in comedy?”
“Actually,” said Quentin, furrowing his brow, “Actually, because Celia doesn’t ever feel good hearing Irish jokes let’s make no offer. Perhaps Quentin really shouldn’t tell utterly vile wordy xenophobic yarns. Zak?”
“Impressive,” said Zak, “but you missed out K.”
“Know what?” said Celia, “Nobody’s perfect, and it is a Monday.”