The Vestry of Monnow Potlatch may or may not have been a good thing. It reminds me a little of a moment that was exorcised from The Windral because it really just made no sense whatsoever and yet it was such a neat moment your writer of pulp had terrible trouble removing it from the narrative. Our hero was in Reading, England, and he and his grandfather were rambling on about the Patron Saint of Reading being a Biscuit Manufacturer rather than something sensible like a Dane called Eric. Then for no good reason our hero was at the Reading, England, railway station where DH Laurence once lost his manuscript, all five hundred thousand words of The Seven Pillars of Wisdom.
And I think, if there is a point, it has to do with an inclination in your
writer of pulp which sometimes leads him to assume that his access to narrative
has more to do with channeling a great beyond of dancing figures, restless
ghosts and broken dreams, and this access has just the occasional open window.
Once the window's closed it can never be opened again, which sounds depressing.
Of course in the olden days your correspondent could pop in and out of the
window whenever he chose to, it was called heavy drinking. Yes indeed, The
Vestry of Monnow begins on a park bench in Tomislav Square which is in the
Croatian city of Zagreb. It's not quite the end of winter, there's a railway
station and a debate.