The Cow sighed dramatically. Did The Universe really want to hear that Mr Timberland had taken to wearing Jeep (but not driving one), or that colour had finally arrived in the Film and Media tea room, albeit in muted form?
Gramsci fixed her with his beady eyes. "Why don't you blog about The Poet?" he suggested. Carnivorous Cow looked bemused. "Which Poet?" she enquired.
"Well..." began Gramsci, settling in. "One day, a Poet arrived on Campus, and headed for the offices of one of our own poets, where she was politely received. After some obligatory small talk, she announced that she'd come, at the behest of Someone Very Senior, to take over the programme. Our own poet was somewhat surprised. No one had said anything to any of the staff who taught on the programme. To all intents and purposes, they were doing just fine.
"Our own poet spoke to another of our own poets, and they decided to disabuse The Poet of this illusion of hers, and sent her packing. Poetically, of course. Poets are not prosaic people.
"But somehow perplexed by the whole incident, they decided to investigate, and it turned out that a conversation had indeed taken place between The Poet and Someone Very Senior. At a party, or some such function. Over drinks. And Someone Very Senior had said something genial intimating that our fine institution could be finer yet through the acquisition of someone fine like The Poet. Which was interpreted by The Poet as a firm job offer, entailing heading up the programme. Hence her arrival on Campus to do so."
Carnivorous Cow shook her head, sadly. This was, after all, the stuff of short stories, not of poems. "Is there any truth in this," she asked Gramsci, "or is this merely one of those apocryphal anecdotes that earn one drinks down at the Club?"
"Pick a poet," he smiled, "I'm sure they'll be willing to engage. But it might well cost you a drink or two at the Club..."