While out walking yesterday, I passed a cafe where I once had a chicken liver omelet. The taste for chicken liver is not so much acquired as it is experienced a few times then abandoned.
As I was eating the omelet, I had no idea that it was in effect payment for the production of a play I had written. I was writing plays at the time and had high hopes that this production would do many positive things, not the least of which would be an understanding of how plays worked and didn't work.
None of this happened during the production. With the taste of chicken liver in my mouth, I moved on to house painting. When I was left alone in a room with an open can of oil based paint, I never looked back.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment