The Periodic Englishman Pub

I walked down to the Periodic Pub yester after [ I've decided "yesterday" and "afternoon" are too long and too expensive, so I've laid them off; they are redundant ( on one side of The Channel), and part of the grand chomage (on the other side of La Manche) ]. The place was shuttered and still, the lights extinguished and the wit laid under a bushel.

Sic transit, I thought, wondering when the next train to the northern 'burbs ran.

I did read the last broadside, affixed to the antique glass of the entryway. It was raining; my glasses were wet; I couldn't quite make it out in the light there: it was a veritable mezzuzah of the arcane and mystifying guarding the door.
I had managed to creep myself out, so I lit a match, and I read the post.
He had mentioned his gram (God rest her soul) had spoken in tongues to the family dog at times. Being an incurable romantic and an incurable dyslexic, I of course read this as "...spoken in the tongue of dogs to the family dog...", sort of changing things around, going from meditations upon old age and the passing of time, and turning it into a sort of pantomime version of Harry Potter.

What I found troublesome was the fact that I did not perceive my error until well along the passage. I suddenly realized my expectations of fantasy were like the Emperor who stepped out of the schvitz and walked down the middle of main street, oblivious of the fact that his towel had been caught on the doorknob of the baths.
Well, long story short, it is time for a confession: it is exactly this way that I dream up most of my stuff; it's all based on mis-readings of the musings of the brainy. There. Now you can do it, too.