Somewhere, deep in my cranium, lurks the Officer in Charge of Writing.
When a deadline is due, the OCW grabs his swagger stick, and bursts into the tent.
''Rise and shine,'' he trumpets.
''You're on parade. Get up and write, you loafer.''
It's nasty. I've been happily waffling through the week reading thrillers, solving sudokus, and googling guff. Then this kilted buffoon bursts in yelling straight down my brain stem.
''B but sir. I'm not quite ready,'' I squeak.
''So what's your snivelling excuse?'' he bellows. My mind whirls, and selects the first lame pretext it barks its knee on.
''I haven't thought of anything worth saying.''
The OCW shakes his head in disbelief.
''Laddie, if I had 10 bucks for every columnist who wakes up with nothing worth saying, I'd ... why, I'd ...''
The OCW paused, considering the inconceivable sum.
''Well ... I'd need a second sporran. Look Sunshine, there's set procedures for days with nothing to say. Get on with it. At the double!'' I left the OCW to his ravings. There are no true rules for writing - it is lawless.
There are, however, proven routines for putting it off. Another cup of tea. Google something interesting but utterly useless. Who was Earl Grey? Why the McVities' digestive biscuit? Is Burt Lancaster dead yet?
Yes, for 20 years apparently, but where did that thought spring from? The OCW is not the only madman in my head - there are also the crazed librarians who run round its archives, pulling out forgotten fragments for irrelevant moments.
Does everyone's head employ these looney filing clerks? The zealous idiots who deliver useless thoughts out of nowhere? For example, do you too have the Curator of Forgotten Music, the one who jams the old records into your mental jukebox?
I'm engrossed in boiling an egg. Suddenly the curator pops 10 cents in the slot, and I find myself singing I'm Henry the Eighth, I am (I am). I'm certain I haven't heard or thought of this deeply stupid 1965 hit since, well, since 1965.
So why now? The Curator of Forgotten Music is nuts about YouTube.
Last night I was about to go to bed - the toothpaste was safely on the brush - when the curator announced: ''Connie Francis. Lipstick on Your Collar. Check her on YouTube, or I won't let you sleep.''
Connie Francis. One of the greats, but really? Dutifully, I searched, and sure enough, found a clip from some ancient American tonight show. But it ruined the memory.
The girl with the foghorn voice faced the cameras like a scared kitten caught licking a bulldog's bowl. Another mad mind librarian has the job of Conservator of Past Nobodies. He delivers people who meant nothing, and still don't, folk who were just there.
Barry Hoy, Primer 4. Why suddenly think of him? Annette Thomas, a girl with braces and glasses. And Jack Barnes.
Now hang on. Jack Barnes does mean something. Jack was the world's oldest reporter. In Jack's dotage, his benevolent newspaper parked him in a safe job as their Sydney Airport roundsman.
This round's specialty was press conferences with visiting stars, and Jack could be hidden away in the thicket of microphones.
The difficulty was that sometimes Jack stirred, and asked an inanity, as Frank Sinatra discovered. Sinatra was king of the pack, top of the heap. Every word and movement of his press conference clarified the point that we were trash, and he was God.
His publicity agent asked for a final question.
''Me, me,'' gabbled Jack. The supreme being turned to him, lips curled.
''How do you spell your name?'' asked Jack.
I doubt I've heard a finer put down. So score one point for memories delivered by the mad mind librarians.
I googled Jack and sadly, there is no trace. But I hear footsteps stomping down the corridor. It's that bloody Officer in Charge of Writing.
''Is there anything yet?'' he roars.
I roll my eyes.
''Sorry, not a sausage.''
John Lapsley is an Arrowtown writer.
