Bob Enjoys the Odd Book.

I was really hoping it might have been John.

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The only thing worse than talking to John is talking to his much older son, Bob.

Bob is approximately 4,387 days old and one of the most educated folk you could ever have the misfortune to come across.

Having devoted a lifetime to devouring knowledge, this practically invisible but extremely famous individual had exhausted his entire existence tucked away in the ‘Encyclopaedia Insomniac’ region of the local book repository. A section located one column down from the ‘Literary Dead’ area.

Unfortunately (while looking for a pleasant and quiet spot for a wee rest) it wasn't long before reality gave me an almighty smack across the chops and pointed out that this wasn't the spot one would choose for a ‘quiet wee rest’.

Unbeknownst to all, it was Bob's current location. 

A realisation that struck, like the cold hand of Mr. Death himself, when Bob popped his head out from his latest divulgence: ‘The Last Will and Testimony of Oliver Spatwell’.

A very good book for those who indulge in lengthy monologues and introspective tosh, its narrative entirely centred around  divvying up his absurdly monstrous estate to a few hundred gourmandly relatives.

The type of book one would naturally find in the ‘Encyclopaedia Insomniac’ section located one column down from the ‘Literary Dead’ shelf.

Bob has lived there all his 4,300 and whatever days.

Then, without so much as a thought, the game was a bogey: a short, yet regrettable and highly inappropriate Hi, Bob.

It was too late to take back.

‘Oh, it's you that's the source of all the hubbub and hullabaloo, I did ponder what was befalling this, usually very quiet and tranquil quarter, or at least it has been until you chanced an appearance, because no one frequents this dusty hovel, thankfully, which means I can entertain the seclusion: probably due to the subject matter of the content in the ‘Encyclopaedia Insomniac’ section, which in my opinion is far better than others if you ask me, which you didn't—I get that—but should you like to contemplate (but then no one really contemplates these days I guess) the monikers and appellations that would most likely put people off, for example: “The Seasonal Weather Pattern Effect on Mongolian 17th Century Crop Rotation” by Winston Fotheringhay; “Paint” by His Royal Highness Terry Winchester XIV; “What Happens When? - An Informal Exploration of Trousers” by Mrs. Former, all of which are unabridged with piquancy flavour and entirely misjudged by those who simply judge a book by its cover—although in these instances it's probably the honorific titles rather than the covers, but well worthy of a second chomping (which I did); however the chapter regarding the “Anaesthetic Properties of Pantone 448C”, which I understand is more or less brown… and although deliciously constructed, it should really consider that it has a subtle green hue, as far as I'm concerned, but awarding it the title of “Ugliest Colour in the World” (as it was back in 2012) does seem rather harsh as it's probably quite nice under the right circumstances, not that I'd know as I was overburdened with the 14th chapter from the thoroughly engrossing: “The Rise of Modernist Potato Carvings: A Moldovan Study of Military Art” by Admiral General Constantin-Ion Mocanu-Stănescu”, which I'd recommend if you feel…’

…

…Suddenly, one would presume… and for no apparent reason, Bob stopped.

Mid sentence.

Trailed off, as it were.

On close inspection, this normally milky-white, considerably unpretentious individual had exasperated himself yellowish-brown. He'd finally pupated himself… motionless from profound boredom, manifesting into a state of ultimate tedium.

Now… it was a pleasant and quiet spot for a wee rest. 

Bye, Bob.