I need to write a speech for Tuesday. At the AGM, the chairman sums up the year, thanks the committee and other useful people, says the right things in the right way – you know the sort of thing. It doesn’t give much scope for scintillation, but needs to be the right side of soporific, for we will have an interesting lecture afterwards on The Danse Macabre in Art, which no one wants to miss because z made them zzz.
Reading a speech is hard to do without sounding deadly dull, isn’t it. Even if I have notes, I prefer not to look at them. But, in this instance, there are details not to be got wrong and not to be left out, so reading most of it is necessary. But,as you may have noticed, I occasionally play to an audience and I do like to raise the occasional chuckle … but ponderously reading a written funny is just awful so I’ll just have to wing that bit.
Fortunately, I have a limited range of facial expressions. Mostly, they are bigly grinning or worried/frightened. I’ll go for the sympathy-inducing angle, I think.
Anyway, I’m sitting at my desk on a Saturday afternoon for the purpose of writing said speech. No, that sounds tautologous (or should that be tautological?). For the purpose of writing aforementioned speech. I have made my preparations. I have just eaten an omelette containing a shallot and a small but vicious red chilli, drunk a glass of white wine and put Okkervil River’s Black Sheep Boy on (I can’t thank Julie in Athens enough for introducing them to me. They are so good). This has put me in such a good mood that writing boring stuff seems almost a pleasure.