Many writers have shared their thoughts with the public:

"There is something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You never quite know where they'll take you." - Beatrix Potter

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." - Anaïs Nin

"Sharing your writing, being enlarged by others' writing, is what makes you feel famous." - Gretchen Bernabei

"Writing is not an amusing occupation. It is a combination of ditch-digging, mountain-climbing, treadmill and childbirth." - Edna Ferber

"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." - Ben Franklin

"One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones to form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment." - Hart Crane

"There are three rules for writing. Unfortunately, no one can agree what they are." - W. Somerset Maugham

Otherwise Engaged

It was with a mounting sense of dread that Mr Percy 'Winky' Hoodwinkle mounted the stairs of his aunt’s imposing manor on an uncommonly dreary evening in August. Who could blame him? Anyone who had met the Dowager Viscountess Brassington and had come away with their life vowed never to repeat the experience.

The Viscountess had always thought her nephew was a sapscull with windmills in his head, and she always made that opinion perfectly clear. Somehow this did not engender a sense of endearment in Winky towards his relative, and as such lived his life with the number one goal of avoiding his aunt at all costs.

Winky paused on the stairs and considered his options. He envied his contemporaries on the French battlefield; Napoleon himself was a less fearsome foe than the Viscountess Brassington. Was it too late to enlist?

Sheltered only partly by the overhang of the gothic threshold, steady drops of rain slid down the back of his five-caped coat. It was all the fault of this damned rain. If it hadn’t been so torrential earlier, he would have been setting off for a night of pleasure at the Fawthorpes’. His aunt, he alas knew too late, was also to be one of the party. However, he figured that in a room of some sixty guests, he might use his aunt’s short-sightedness to his advantage. He only needed to fill his dance card and sit himself at dinner far from her vicinity, and the night was not completely dished up.

But then came the rain. The only entryway to the Fawthorpe estate was practically a swamp, and no carriage would dare make it to the other side.

Generally a good-humoured gentleman, Winky would have been far from forlorn if he heard the news of the postponement by the apologetic message that awaited him at his lodgings from the disconsolate host. Unfortunately, he was given no such opportunity. Just as he was walking down the street, enjoying the temporary easement of rainfall and planning his night in order to have the lowest possible risk of coming into his aunt’s path, he found himself, in a cruel twist of fate, exactly in her path.

The dowager, unlike her nephew, had already been informed of the change in plans, and had come up with her own. It was about time her nephew had some sense married into him, and she had exactly the girl to do it. No one would ever say Miss Honoria Primrose was lacking in sense. Or decorum, for that matter. Unfortunately for her marital prospects however, qualities such as kindness, warmth or humour were not ones that anyone, unless required by propriety, would voluntarily bestow upon her. Their personalities so aligned, it was no surprise that the Viscountess liked her goddaughter very much indeed.

The old woman gave her nephew no opportunity for escape. She made no salutations. She simply demanded: “Percy, with the ball cancelled, you will come to Sloane Street for dinner. I have someone of great importance I wish you to meet.”

He wondered why the heavens were punishing him so as he attempted a bumbling excuse: “Ah, alas, ma’am! I am otherwise engaged. I have - ah, plans with a friend!”

“Fiddle faddle, Percy. You could not possibly have any fixed plans, the party has only just been cancelled. Whatever foolish card game you have concocted can wait.”

“But - !”

“If you insist on being troublesome, Percy, you can bring your friend too. But come to my dinner party, you will. Do you understand me?”

She gave him no possibility for refusal.

Even if he did have plans with a friend that evening, there was no way he would be able to convince any friend of his to attend a known despot’s dinner party.

Consequently, it was with immense relief that, as he stood in the partial rain, half-way up the stairs to Brassington Manor, he spotted another man also peering into the house. A compatriot! Jolly good.

Winky, the hopeful skip in his step revived, popped up next to the fellow. He followed his gaze into the faintly lit, empty front sitting room.

“Hullo there!”

The stranger nearly jumped out of his unlaundered pants, so was the shock of Winky’s greeting. The man instantly looked for an exit, but Winky was squarely placed between him and the street.

‘Poor bastard,’ empathised Winky, thinking it was quite natural for the fear of entry to such a dinner party to sink in.

“Come on, old boy, let’s get this over with.”

The reason behind the young man’s reluctance was not, as Mr Hoodwinkle had assumed, based upon a prior acquaintance with the occupants of the house. The young gentleman had an entirely different reason for avoiding their company. He had been informed that the house, holding a particularly expensive collection of vases, was going to be empty that night with the exception of a mostly deaf butler. He had anticipated a fairly straight forward break in and burglary. Winky’s presence next to him was therefore certainly not part of his game plan.

“Oh, no, thank you but I’m really not –,” started the burglar with nervous refusal.

“Nonsense man, better sum up the courage now. Think on this - when it’s over we can go for a drink.” And with that, Winky practically shoved him inside. “We’ll need it.”

As they cautiously walked down the hallway, Winky introduced himself without a grain of formality - they were comrades-in-arms now. The stranger called himself Mr Smith and they were strangers no more.

The reception waiting for them in the back parlour was sombre to say the least. Neither gentleman was particularly happy to be there. Neither of the females awaiting them were particularly impressed by their guests’ appearance.

Winky himself was looking entirely too much a dandy, and Mr Smith had all the makings of someone who did not rate personal hygiene especially high. He unsuccessfully attempted to smooth out the wrinkles in his coat. To the dowager, the young burglar’s disarray seemed the picture of Romantic bohemianism. Thinking it was just like Winky to have such a poorly dressed denigrate as his bosom friend, she made no comment, instead relying on the disapproval of her stare to communicate her dissatisfaction. Probably a painter or poet or some other poor soul.

Wth the arrival of the final dinner guest - a rather vivacious Miss Frost - the Viscountess whispered loudly to Winky (and consequently the whole room): “Miss Frost is Honoria’s companion - some poor relation of sorts. Far too much levity for a lady, in my opinion.” Miss Frost, pretending not to hear, simply laughed under her breath.

At dinner, Winky was having a surprisingly good time beside Miss Frost. He should have known that a woman known for too much levity would have been exactly the kind of company for him.

Mr Smith, on the other hand, was being as silent as he could manage. He thought it best - something was sure to reveal his dishonourable identity if he opened his mouth. Unfortunately, the young marauder’s plan was backfiring - next to the loud laughter of Winky, Mr Smith looked like a paragon of youthful virtue to his elderly host and her goddaughter.

Miss Frost considered the strangely quiet young man across from her and asked Winky how long they had known each other.

“Lord, feels like no time at all. But really it’s been - what - an hour?”

It was at this stage that Miss Frost came to realise that Mr Smith was some stranger off the street, known to none of the dinner guests and with every comment appearing more and more a nefarious person very much out of his element. It was turning out to be a very interesting evening indeed.

“I’ll tell you what though, if he manages to take the pressure off my aunt’s pestering me to marry some terribly straight-laced wife, he’ll be my fast friend.” He gave Mr Smith a friendly smile, watching as the man made a mumbling excuse to leave the table to relieve himself.

“You know there is a solution to that.”

“Really! By all means, help a fellow out.”

“You could choose a wife yourself. She can hardly force you to marry if you’re already engaged.”

“Never thought of that!”

Winky had never thought himself the marrying type, but in that moment, faced with a potential future with the pug-faced Miss Primrose, the benefits of a match of his own were boundless.

He was still considering his options when the entire party made their journey to the adjoining parlour. What he saw shocked him out of all pretence of ponderings. Mr Smith’s rough hands caressed the dowager’s prized vase; the very picture of a boy caught with his hand in the sweets tin. The old woman could not have been more offended than if he had dared to caress her own bosom. The level of indignation she felt had momentarily muted her, but a tirade of rebukes, reproofs and reprimands were threatening to roll off her tongue any moment.

Miss Frost felt for the poor man. He practically deserved the vase for sitting through dinner with the lot of them. It would be a pity if he were to be caught out now.

“Mr Smith is an expert collector, are you not?” Miss Frost said, turning towards the guest of dishonour with a cheeky smile. “I believe you said you were writing a book on fine vases?”

“Well, why did you not mention it before!” interrupted Viscountess Brassington. “I didn’t think my foolish nephew had such cultured connections. By all means, you may inspect the vase for your studies. I believe it is very important to be thorough in the studies of the true, classical arts. I have a keen interest in the subject myself.”

Suddenly an honoured guest, the Viscountess even invited Mr Smith to be the fourth in the card game. He impressed her with his knowledge of the art of fine china, which consisted of well-timed cooings of agreement and nods to her own observations.

With the card game coming to a close, Mr Smith and Mr Hoodwinkle were both counting down the moments before they could make their leave. The Dowager Viscountess Brassington, however, had other plans. No one was leaving until she took the opportunity to make her matchmaking intentions clear. Her goddaughter must marry. Her nephew was not leaving that house without being engaged.

“Terribly sorry, but I couldn’t possibly marry Miss Primrose!” exclaimed Winky, upon the unceremonious announcement of his own alleged wedding by his aunt to the entire room.

“And why not? You better have a good reason, Percy.”

Winky, feeling both physically and metaphorically forced into a corner, was feeling desperate for escape. His eyes clamped onto Miss Frost.

“Because I am otherwise engaged!”

“What nonsense is this now, Percy.”

Miss Frost caught his meaning and saw an opportunity for an escape of her own.

“It’s true, ma’am. Mr Hoodwinkle and I are to be married, so I must beg you not to steal him away.”

“I will not hide my disappointment, but I will give you leave to do so, if you must.” She looked about the room, and her eyes fell on her next victim.

“Mr Smith, I take it you are unmarried?”

“No! Y-yes. That is, I’m not married, but –”

“Excellent. And you like Miss Primrose, yes?”

“Miss Primrose I’m sure is a lovely lady, but I –”

“Wonderful. No need to play propriety denying your affections on my account. As my goddaughter is in my sole care, you may ask me for permission for her hand. In fact, you may even have the vase as your wedding gift.”

A run in with a bow street runner was quickly becoming a far sweeter fate than a future with Miss Primrose. He tried to convince the company of his obvious ineligibility. Damn that bloody vase.

“I am unworthy, ma’am - a scoundrel! A marauder! If you only knew of my past, you would never approve of it. I cannot possibly –”

“Nonsense! I will not tolerate theatricals. You will accept my blessing.” Turning to Winky, she added, “I should have known your friend would have been a poet.”