The second batch

Several of the letters were edited again and cut down in size. I realised that eight pages of text might be a bit of an ask for most people. I came to the conclusion that 1-2 pages would be more successful. Let the reader do some of the work, Martin suggested and he was right. You have to strike the right balance between over-elaboration and being too sparse. There is nothing more irritating as preciously sparse  prose with nothing to say. I also contacted a local bookstore and they were receptive to the idea. And why not? The project could actually work. In any case, I walked around Surrey Hills, dropping off letters along the way. I'd gotten over feeling self-conscious about it. The previous evening, riding a bus to the city, was the first time I'd been caught out. I tried to leave one on the bus and this helpful foreign student ran after me. Here you go mate! He said. I smiled and said, thanks man. Phew! Wouldn't want to lose this! 

Later on, I was in one of my favourite pubs, the Old Fitzroy in Woolloomooloo, to drop off a few letters. After lingering around the bar, not seeing the opportunity, I had to tuck out of view, going in the little darts alcove. In order to look casual (the purpose being to leave a few letters on a section of the bar on which sat a few guttered candles, old books and a handful of darts). I started throwing darts. Again, the idea was to blend in. I mainly hit the outer rings of the dart board. I was trying to get one bullseye. Thump! Thump! The darts kept landing near by not in the central red bullseye. The bartender wandered over. You get a bullseye in the next three throws, he said, and I'll buy you a drink. Okay, I replied. The second dart landed closest. The third went wild. A complete miss. Almost, he said, shrugging his shoulders. Yeah, I said. What are you gonna do? He was still standing there, the letter I had set down laying on the ledge plainly in his line of sight. I had a half a beer left. If he connected me with the letter I'd be a bit embarrassed. Sure I would. I was just figuring out how to extract myself from this pleasant but unwanted conversation when a Scottish football team walked in the pub and crowded into the dart area. At least there seemed to be a high number of people with Scottish accents in this group. Using the dartboard man? Asked one of these Scots. All yours, I said. I left the letter there and wandered outside. A woman with four minature dogs sat on a chair smoking, contemplating the empty street. She was drinking something with a little umbrella sticking out of it. I could hear the Scottish team inside. I finished my beer and then took off, heading up the empty street towards the Cross.