So it was a dream and it may be just another story that we tell at the breakfast table. This one was vivid and detailed. I was at a dinner party, enjoying raucous fun and talking about inventing a conversation game. It had just been decided that a ‘stoat’ defeated a ‘boast’, the latter being an exaggerated claim and the former a nip that exsanguinated. It seemed such good sport and the puzzle of how to decide a winner my waking excogitations must leave so.
Think of a hat with slips in that are drawn with several questions and topics that are gauged to the present company. We might ask:
Is a S.J.W. and a Contrarian cross sterile or an obliging mule?
How many roads must a man go down?
(a) till he buys a map
(b) Till he asks a local
(c) Till he decides that he should never have left home
Central heating has killed the art of conversation?
Cliches are cold porridge, unsalted.
The sentence before ‘We never talk anymore’.
Is talking in sentences a thing, really, actually?
And so forth:
Is X living a hand to nose existence?
For the gossips.