What happened before the knock on the door is fairly well documented. A poet in a laudanum slumber writing raw on 'Alph' and 'caves of ice' is jarred alert to tedious deeds. A businessman from Porlock knocks. He's walked it seems. The Muse is left to marinade in milk and honeydew and what happens next is left to speculation.
I, being one who's quite partial to non-fact founded speculating, would like to think that the ensuing conversation went something like this:
'Hello Sir, I'm looking for a Mr. Coleridge. Mr. Samuel Taylor Coleridge from Nether Stowey. Would that be you Sir?'
'Yes, and very pleased I am to see you. Do come in and allow me to take your coat. You're just in time.'
'But I don't understand Sir, as far as I'm aware no one has been informed of my planned visit. How in that case, could I possibly have 'arrived just in time' for anything?'
'Please, take a seat and allow me to explain. I've got a bit of a problem with this infernal opium habit. It really is most troublesome! It seems that I can only write anything vaguely interesting while under the influence of its dream inducing qualities. I was mid verse when the effects quite unexpectedly wore off. Now I have a poem with no ending. Tell me Mr. Businessman, if you were in my position, what would you do now?'
'I'd probably take some more opium Sir.'
'Not an option. I've run out. 'I'm waiting for Dr. Potter to arrive with a new prescription.'
'Well in that case I'd probably think up an excuse. I expect I'd blame it on some sort of unfortunate circumstance beyond my control. You can blame it on me if you like Sir. Say I interrupted you, I wouldn't mind.'
'Good Man! And where was it you said you were from ? - Porlock was it? And that's spelt: Pee; Oh; Are; Ell; Oh; See; Kay. Yes? Excellent! Thank you very much.'