Consequences: Post 25. Not starring Nigella Lawson

The following words randomly coagulated from the fetid imagination of Em²

I would like to say “No”.

I would like to say “See this job? This marrow-shaped, festering and pulsating pile of cack that you refer to as my rôle? Do you want to know where you can stick it? Would you like some help getting it in there?”

I would like to say “Nigella? Oh yes, but we’re just good friends.”

But I can’t. And people know this. And take advantage, bastards that they are. So I get most of the following calls:

“I know you’re busy but …”

“So-and-so suggested I ring you because you can help me with …”

“Hi. My name is Michael Smith and I’m calling from the corporate rewards department in Los Angeles to tell you you’ve won the jackpot! Press 9 to claim your prize.”

“Hi. This is Nige again. Sorry about Friday – I’ve got to work. Can you make it on Saturday instead? I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

Piss off, the lot of you – except Nigella but especially “Michael” fucking “Smith”1.

I’ll tell you what, though. I’d really like to say “Yes, please.”

1. I actually rang home from my mobile to check what the message was, you bastard. You’ve cost me money. Fly over here and wander over to Norfolk and let’s see what you’ve won in life’s lottery, eh? It’ll come in a bunch of five, I’ll tell you that much.

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