At a table on the pavement cafe of Pret a Manger in Swan Lane, Guildford, the Trappist eased his weary frame into a convenient chair, and carefully placed his purchases from Sussex Stationers onto a shady patch of pavement beside him. The contents of the bag included his holiday reading: Alan Bennett’s ‘The Uncommon Reader’, William Dalrymple’s ‘The Last Moghul’, and various reduced and remaindered editions of books which had caught his eye.

A pleasant atmosphere of bonhomie suffused the street, with its passers-by intent on enjoying the shopping opportunities in the early summer sunshine between Guildford’s Friary Centre, the slightly down at heel North Street, and interesting interconnecting alleys and ginnels which afforded access to the historic High Street.

It was in such a pedestrianised precinct that the Trappist awaited his colleagues. A clatter of sticks and the familiar lurching tread of the Sage, accompanied by an unseasonally cloaked Antipodean and Eastern Monk soon appeared and placed themselves at the table.

“Jeez!” muttered the Antipodean. “Couldn’t we have found a better rendez-vous than this two-bit flea-bitten run down excuse of a provincial backwater?”

The Eastern Monk said nothing, caught up in his inner observation of nones.

“What news from the other side of the river?” said the Trappist, impatiently cutting across the grumblings of his colleagues.

“Cafe frappe, latte, Americano and cappuccino,” instructed the Elderly Sage of the young waitress, who had appeared to see what the commotion was all about. Then to the Trappist:

“Things could hardly have gone worse. Our strategem is in severe danger of backfiring, if not failing altogether!” He leaned back as a tray with the various beverages appeared, and the waitress unloaded the cargo onto the table.

“And this, I take it, despite your master-plan to entertain our learned friend with virtual contributions of an arcane and academic nature from supposedly sympathetic acolytes?” suggested the Trappist, mendaciously.

“Looking at the positives,” said the Sage, ignoring the scarcely veiled cynicism of the comment, “We have lured our partner into the land, where he is enagaged in churning out a on a semi-industrial scale a conveyor belt of obscure articles, of the kind with which we are all too familiar. However, these articles have received no accompanying comments and remarks to perpetuate the delusion of a second exodus. In short, it has been left to me to provide the sole source of theological reflection. Our meeting today is to consider why you have each been sitting on your hands, and not getting on with the job of providing academic interactivity!”

“So the plan was that we contributed the comments?” said the Monk, his oblations having now been completed.

“Precisely!” said the Sage, looking thunderously round the table. “Unless there is some evidence of action soon, our colleague may well yet return to this side of the river, and seriously compromise the directions in which our animadversities and tergiversifications are now taking us.”

“You mean a compromising of the website, turning it into a ‘Tales of the Riverbank’ - Kenneth Graham style?”

“Precisely!” said the Bard, drinking back the final dregs of his noxious caffeinated brew.

The Antipodean drew out a pocket watch from within the folds of his cloak, his red beard bristling threateningly. “Which brings us to the point! Our internet- ticketed booking on the ‘Pride of the River Wey’ departs from the boathouse in Shalford Meadows in six minutes.”

“Great Scott!” expostulated the Eastern Monk, and with a grating of chairs and flustered gathering of packages and shopping, the meeting was deconvened and the four set off at a cracking pace to get to the River, along Quarry Street and down Porridge Pot Alley, before the departure of the river launch which was to take them to their next point of disembarkation, where the imbroglio which they were carefully fermenting would reach its untimely denouement.

Moderator’s note:

‘Tergiversifications’ has been approved by our committee, but we frown on the inappropriate use, in context, of ‘animadversities’ and request that it be withdrawn and replaced forthwith.

An ‘imbroglio’ can no more be ‘fermented’ than a ‘denouement’ can be described as ‘untimely’. Only a ‘demise’ can be described as ‘untimely’, which is probably what you mean in the cliche-ridden pot-boiler style of this hack-journalistic excuse of a story. The standard of this contribution falls far below that of previous strands of this wandering narrative.

We also note that the bill for beverages consumed at Pret a Manger in Guildford was neither presented nor paid. Unless there can be immediate and substantial improvements to the literary quality of this thread, the Moderators reserve the right to terminate it and block further comments without notice.