The Story Inspectors Problem

One morning, I was woken early by an official-sounding knocking on my back door. I quickly dressed and rushed downstairs, to find two official-looking men in suits, both obviously mainlanders.

“Can I help you?” I said.

“We’re story inspectors,” the first official said. “We’re here to check that this story is suitable for public reading.”

“You’re not members of some insane religious cult, for example?”, asked the second official.

“Oh no, nothing like that. Alun and I both worship Croccy.”

“Croccy?”

“He’s a Peruvian crocodile god. He lives in the Happy Island Lagoon.”

“I see,” the official said, marking a note on the clipboard he was carrying. “And are either you or Alun married?”

“No, though we’re both with partners. I’m going out with a Dalek and Alun’s seeing Death’s PA.”

“A Dalek and Death’s PA,” the official repeated, scribbling frantically on the clipboard.

“Would you be able to show us the island?” the second official said. “We don’t know our way around.”

“Oh yes,” I said. “I’m more than happy to show you the sights. Let me get my coat.”

“And your shoes, obviously.”

“Shoes? I don’t have shoes. We’re only a small island. I go everywhere barefoot.”

The inspector made another note in his book. “What are those?” he asked, as we passed my geep. They’re unusual looking sheep. Or are they goats?”

“They’re geep,” I said. “A sheep-goat hybrid. They’re unique to this island.”

The inspectors seemed unimpressed by everything I’d said so far, so I decided to take them to Refrigerator Bay to view one of the greatest sights in the world, the sunlight glistening on the two hundred abandoned refrigerators.

“Good lord, it’s an enormous waste dump,” the first inspector said.

“It’s Refrigerator Bay,” I explained. “Don’t you think it’s an amazing sight? See how the sunlight catches the rust.”

“No I don’t, I think it’s an enormous environmental hazard, they’re rusting and leaking all sorts of dangerous chemicals. You should get the council to remove them.”

“It was the council that put them there,” I explained.

“This is too much,” the first official said. These stories are advocating mutant animals, pollution of beaches, worshiping of false idols and walking barefoot. And as for your relationships, one of you is walking out with the most dangerous race in the galaxy, the other is cosied up with the secretarial staff of one quarter of the four horsemen of the apocalypse. I’ve never encountered a series of stories so completely lacking in any moral compass. We’re going to injunction the author to stop these stories immediately.”

“Author?” I said. “There is no author.”

“What do you mean? Of course there’s an author. Stories don’t write themselves.”

“No, they don’t, I write them. In fact, I’m writing this. Why have I been letting you muck me about like this? I’m the author, I can make you do anything I want.”

“Just to repeat Mr Wood,” the inspector said, “We have no problem at all with these stories, in fact we love them and would like you to accept this Prestigious Award for ‘Morally Responsible Writing’ and the accompanying grant for 75 mainland pounds.”

And that, dear reader, was the last I saw of the story inspectors.