The things we do for glove

My boss asked me to draft the following letter to BBC North and Yorkshire television:

Dear Sir or Madam,

It is with regret that I find myself having to write to you both again. You will recall that we had cause to complain back in March over your misleading reporting of one of our Initiatives. Once again we are extremely dismayed at the tone and manner in which you have reported such an initiative which threatens to undermine our efforts to promote healthy lives in our region.

You report with overt scepticism that the initiative to implant live Lobsters into women with fertility problems is unlikely to receive public backing. On the contrary, thousand of people in the UK have some form of fertility problem. Conventional IVF is both costly in monetary and psychological terms. By offering couples the chance to conceive a hard shelled expensive crustacean, we are giving hope to those poor buggers where hope was gone. Where their feeble bodies and minds were bereft of smiles due to the lack of working innards, we offer a viable alternative.

Of course, the Lobsters are not always carried to full term and even in the event that they are, the birth normally results in the death of both the Lobster, the mother and the father. But the choice is stark for these people, particularly in the grim North. They either vainly carry on with the fevered but ultimately fruitless coupling on the kitchen table, or they reach out to health professionals and say

“Yes. Yes I DO have a problem and I want a baby Lobster”.

I pity the poor sod who tries to deny these ‘people’ this opportunity.

Yours truly,

Colin Badger-Silk

Fudge

I cupped Charlottes face in my hands and blew gently across her face.

“Don’t do that Christian” she shook her head from my grip irritably.

The reaction shocked me and I took a step back.

“Careful!” she exclaimed, “you’ll step on my shopping”.

I stumbled to a halt but was powerless to stop myself standing on the bag. A sickening crunch confirmed the deed.

“You moron, you absolute moron” she snarled.

“It was an accident” I countered, stung by the rebuke “I didn’t mean to do it”.

“Yeah you don’t MEAN to do a lot of things. Christ, is that your excuse for all your blunders in life?”.

“Charlotte please” I held up my hands feeling genuinely hurt and perplexed, “What’s the matter?”.

She walked silently and slowly toward me before firing an open handed slap to my face. I recoiled in horror until my back was against the wall.

“No more questions” she muttered, eyes wide, “Sit down Chris. We need to talk”. She hung her head looking utterly defeated.

I followed her into the living-room, a lump in my throat and a heavy heart. This did not have the hallmarks of a happy ending. Once she had sat down, she looked up at me with purpose.

“I didn’t want to have to ask this but I have no choice”, she took a deep breath, “Have you been spooning fudge into my dressing-table?”.

The realisation hit me like a taser. I’d been found out.

“Fudge?” I tried to ride out the storm.

“Every drawer, shelf and cupboard is coated in Fudge” she shook her head in disbelief, “I mean, you must have been doing it for weeks. Making up a massive bowl of fudge then spooning it into the dressing-table whilst I slept”.

“ALRIGHT!” I erupted, “It’s true…it’s ALL true. I can’t stop myself, I wish I could but I can’t.”.

“Oh Chris” she shook her head half in pity and have in disgust, “You’ve fallen for the lure of the fudge again”.

As I nodded numbly, the tears flowed easily down my face.