First place in the intermediate group
It was sometime in May when I finally met Mr Green. He greeted me at the door and immediately herded me through his house to the study before seating me in a chair more commonly seen in an antiques shop. He then proceeded to thrust a cup of tea into my hand and promptly perched on the edge of a worn writing desk. This changed though when he leapt to his feet a second later and, whilst pacing back and forth, addressed me on the subject of our meeting.
“Now, you’re here about my book. Why? Is something the matter?” He stared at me with the eyes of a hawk and had the habit of punctuating his words with wild arm gestures. “I know it’s taking a while but that is just part of the process. I’m sure you, as a publishing company, are aware of the time writing can take.” His voice had the unnatural ability to change accents at a moment’s notice, rendering it impossible to place where he was from. The loose dressing gown he wore was constantly flailing along with his body, giving the impression that it was caught in a storm.
“Of course we understand Mr Green. I’m simply checking on your progress on behalf of the company.” When I started talking, he suddenly become very bored and fidgety. His ink-stained fingers tapped rapidly on the table, typing on a typewriter that wasn’t there.
“Yes, well, it’s coming on fine, thank you.” He spoke curtly whilst making a sweeping motion towards the piles of first drafts and bins full of scrapped ideas. “Now if you don’t mind I need to continue in peace.” And with that I was escorted back through the house, given a forced goodbye, and met again with an ugly lion door-knocker.