Gripping the handle of the knife carefully, Vanessa made a nervous incision in the body on the table. Growing with confidence, she pressed the knife deeper into the yielding flesh, wondering vaguely if she was anywhere near the heart. The surgeon, her work experience supervisor, flicked vaguely through the latest Who magazine, which had been placed over the head of the patient. Taking a deep drag of her filtered 16 milligram, the surgeon noticed, if the Oscars were anything to go by, that orange was back in again.
Jammy revenge
“Somewhere in Old England somebody thought jam with turkey was a good idea,” Adrian thought to himself as a medium-sized blob of sticky red substrate slipped onto his suit trousers from the soft turkey and salad bap he was eating, a roll which he’d found ‘going spare’ on a platter in the office kitchen after an executive function attended by several government officers each of whom had also encountered the caterer’s jammy revenge on their soul-less grey suits, but telling nobody of their sticky mishaps lest they were exposed as lacking the requisite social skills to successfully eat gourmet bready luncheon rolls from paper plates while standing at a vendor event, a light meal which could feasibly be construed as receiving gifts to influence their already hampered decision making capacities, impartial or otherwise.
