Trigger Warning: For those of us who love language and don’t like to see it treated with cruelty, the following post contains some upsetting material, in which several rules of good writing are broken. The post also features adverbs from the beginning.

‘It’s about time I wrote a blog post,’ I thought to myself, tiredly, as the bright sun peaked over the flat horizon to signal a crisp, Autumn morning.

So I sat down at my computer, reluctantly, pondering whether to write about one of those thrillers I had enjoyed so much recently, or whether to dive enthusiastically into some other subject matter, such as my love for the wonderful Anthony Trollope, the famed Victorian writer who wrote so prolifically.

As I sat there, thinking about what to write, I took a sip of coffee from the big mug in my hand. I slurped the hot liquid greedily as an idea struck me. I began writing furiously, putting down all my thoughts on that favourite topic of writers: the techniques and building blocks of writing.

Suddenly there was a knock at the front door. I looked out of the window, curiously, to see who the visitor was. It was a young man in a black coat. He had a medium-sized beard and brown eyes. He stood at the door impatiently, a parcel in his hand.

‘What’s this?’ I said to myself, quietly. ‘I don’t remember ordering anything.’ Then a thought sprang energetically into my head. Of course! I had recently ordered the book The Elements of Style, along with Stephen King’s On Writing. But why, I asked myself, frowning deeply, didn’t the delivery driver just post it through the door?

I opened the door angrily, unhappy at being interrupted. The delivery driver stood there sheepishly, holding the parcel. ‘Your letterbox is very small,’ he said earnestly through his medium-sized beard. ‘I tried to push it through but it kept getting stuck.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said, kindly.

Suddenly I saw the parcel which he was reluctantly proffering. In his aborted attempt to put the parcel through the letterbox, he had damaged the package. What was left was a mangled and misshapen duo of books, contorted and ugly.

Isn’t it awful, I thought to myself, sadly, when someone takes something great, like printed words, and turns it into a complete mess? I promised solemnly not to be guilty of such a crime.