Dear Sir/Madam,

Having become partial to time wasting, I could not wait to type the seconds away in the form of this letter.

A month ago I succeeded in obtaining work experience at the local library. Excited to delve into my new unpaid position I walked hurriedly down for an initial ‘chat’ with the libraries second in command. Command is a word I use very lightly, the lady (who clearly had just finished reminiscing about her last conversation with William the Conqueror) maintained no interest in what I had to say. Indeed nor could she maintain an interest in keeping her eyes open.

She made passing references at how the library nowadays was a hive of activity compared to the past. A quick glance around served only to prove her wrong. The library was dying, the air was thick and warm with only the movement of many middle aged fans as aid. The shelves untouched, the books dusty. A variation of corpses littered the floor, differing in how decayed they had become. This string of corpses weaved its way to the door, with the last bodies hand grasping the door handle with a deadly grip. Sir/Madam, assuming you are in charge of this library, it has died, bury it.

Later on in my work experience (experience being the operative word), all I had managed to learn was where the appropriate hiding places were located. It is to your benefit sir/madam that such hiding nooks exist, without them I would have been forced to share on average 3 more hours a day talking to your second in command. In turn I would also have been forced to jam the nearest pointy object in her eye, and failing this, in my own. In reference to this, I consulted one of your history books during my experience. It turns out William the Conqueror requested that his archers shoot him in the eye during the Battle of Hastings. His last words screaming something about Amy Pentecost.

Say, isn’t that the name of your second in command?

Yours Faithfully,

Peter Doveston