A couple of weeks ago, I made a bet with had quite underestimated the quality of his fine piece of writing, and in the event it was not even close; he had 24 votes by Sunday afternoon. I told [P], whom I believed to be a gentleman, that the exact nature of the prize was for him to decide, though I hinted that this
would be my preferred choice.
[P] assured me that the present was on its way. I spent the next few days in an agony of pleasant anticipation, not least because my beautiful and sexy girlfriend discreetly suggested that she would be interested in helping me test it. Chocolate, she murmured, melts in the mouth. There might be other places it would melt too. I wasn't quite certain what she meant, but I looked forward to finding out more.
And now, this morning, I went downstairs to collect the post, and this is what I found:
At first, I couldn't even understand what it was, so great was my disappointment. I had to admit the truth to my girlfriend. After looking at the packet for a few seconds, she shook her head. "What do you do
with them?" she asked. I halfheartedly suggested a couple of possibilities, but they fell so miserably short of expectation that I could hardly blame her for turning them down.
[P], I was mistaken. You are no gentleman. You are a rotter, a cad and a bounder. There's only one thing I can say in your defense. As a metaphor for this series, your sorry gift is not entirely without merit.