Reminiscence Writing.

Here's a reminiscence.
Tonight, I walked into The Royal Oak, to conduct the playwriting workshop I've run for more than a year now. I peered into the room we use. OOH, I thought, lots of new people with files. They're keen.

Then they slammed the door in my face.
I asked the barmaid what was going on. She didn't know. But she could provide me with a lovely, if chillingly expensive, pint of Deuchars. Emboldened by this relative good fortune, I walked into the room.

"Are you here for Page to Stage?" I enquired, nicely.

"We're a WRITING group," one of the scary people said, "A reminiscence writing group."

I was so confused that I was nice. I am often confused. And often nice. This is the great tragedy of my life. By this time Edd and Jane had arrived for the workshop, so we went upstairs to investigate the alternative room.
SHIT! It made my house look clean. Full sentences fail me, so I shall merely say:

carrot peelings
pants
ironing board
overflowing fagtray
family photos
Danielle Steele novels
ouija board
human sacrifices hanging by one foot
John Smith's Smooth

Actually the last three were made up. The old gits writing shit about their childhoods to foist upon their teenage descendants who will merely use it to light their crack pipes - did I type that out loud? I mean reminiscence writers - wouldn't budge and I am too wet to tell them to fuck off , so we had to have our workshop in the bar.
So now I am covered in fagsmoke and very, very grumpy.
And I will phone the landpeople tomorrow to ask what the sodding hell happened. Or more probably I will tell them it's no problem, not their fault and we can put up with it. And I never really liked my lungs anyway.

Has anyone got a second hand assertiveness book I can have?
Please?
Only if it's no trouble.............