By Clyde Liffey
My forebodings about joining that TV panel were confirmed as soon as we came back from the first break. The director played an old Tin Pan Alley song. I couldn’t identify the tune though the singer’s voice sounded familiar. First the host and then his second banana smirked. I guess that’s what got to me the most. I’d seen their show before, it was part of my prep. Those old pop tunes from a generation or two before mine are so much better than the formless junk they nowadays play. I extracted the pistol – small, silver, easy to conceal – from my pocket and shot them dead. I have my standards.
Clyde Liffey lives near the water.
The Birdseed 