In a desperate bid to claw back some of the money I’ve laid out on this book, last week I threw myself under a slow-moving vehicle on Central Hill. Admittedly the traffic is usually pretty snarled up there, but I guessed I was in with a good chance of bagging a no win/no fee insurance payout if I just played it cool. Like Matt Damon would if he lived in South East London. So I risked life and limb for hard cash; this is what I’ve been reduced to.
I had it all figured out before leaving the flat. Pretending not to enjoy an Eton Mess pudding, I stealthily concealed the crushed strawberry filling inside a freezer bag shortly before putting the remnants into the green bin. No one was any the wiser. Next, I created a catheter from a decaying Dyson spare and stitched it into the lining of my overcoat, taking care that the protrusion was undetectable from a distance. Then I trepanned a small hole into the back of my skull which allowed the tube to feed its way through to my mouth, meticulously avoiding damage to any significant cells that would render me a vegetable. The bag was to locate inside my top pocket so that when I tumbled over, the contents would spew forth to an incredulous public which would not only witness the event, but also inadvertently help create my first fortune. Seriously, I had it down.
Anyway, I was walking up Harold Road when I got stopped by this old woman who wanted directions to the park. When I pointed out that she was right opposite it, she came over all unnecessary (as people occasionally do when confronted with undeniable fact), repeatedly prodding me in the chest with one of her wizened fingers. A small trajectory of puréed fruit shot out of my mouth and onto her dress, and for a brief moment there was a stunned silence as we both ascertained the situation. I knew what she was thinking, and I knew that she knew that I knew.
There was no choice; I had to do it there and then. So before things got any worse, I sprinted up to the main drag and dived head first into the flow of oncoming cars. A 1970s Leyland milk float ground to a halt shortly after crushing three of my fingers, and the driver (not a milkman) called me a twat twice before driving off. The bag in my pocket remained pristine and there wasn’t a single person about (except for the old woman, who also called me a twat). So I went home and called my insurers.
I spent over twenty quid taking the loss adjuster out to lunch yesterday. He was bang out of order going large on the Mexican meal deal, but ultimately it will be worth it. I went for soup and drank it with the tube. In case you’re wondering…