Read Me A Story...

Good Morning!

Huh! Stupid alarm clock! Your dreams of sailing down a river of jam on a giant panda are interrupted - as usual - by the braying voice of "Mickey Mickson and his Funky Breakfast Shindig" on Radio 6. As you repeatedly try and fail to smack the top of your clock radio you glance at the red numbers below. It's 7:30. Since you don't have to be out of the house until 8:00, you decide to go back to sleep. With one final swipe you happen to land your fist on the snooze button, roll over and fall asleep again instantly.

You wake up again at noon.

Running for the bus, you pass a shop you'd never noticed before. The sign - which looks surprisingly weathered - reads "Fiona's Fruite Ande Vege" and a withered old lady sits inside knitting.

More than a little curious (not to mention pretty sure you've fired by now anyway) you go inside. The lady smiles sweetly and leaves you to browse her stock.

After finding no sweets, computer games or motorbikes in the shop you decide to leave... but your conscience gets the better of you and, rather than leaving empty handed, you buy the cheapest thing you can find. A tomato, for your lunch... or failing that, to throw at your boss when he gives you the bad news.

As you walk down the street you playfully throw the tomato from hand to hand, for the next half-mile or so at least. It's only when startled by a cat running out in front of you that you accidentally throw the tomato up into the air and fall backwards onto your rear, to the badly-hidden chuckles of the few people to whom you were visible.

The tomato, however, rather than slamming onto the ground and going "squesh" - that's "squesh" - instead drifts slowly towards the pavement and hovers, about a foot from the dirt, as if to make sure that you're alright. As you change from glancing to staring at the floating fruit it suddenly falls the final few inches onto the ground and lies there motionless. Not quite sure whether you just saw what you think you saw, you contemplate your next move.

You decide to forget about it and go to work.

Hi Ho, Hi Ho, It's Off To Work We Go

You keep a tight hold on the tomato all the way to work - not so tight as to crush it, of course, but tight enough to stop it dropping towards the floor again, and all that it may entail. However, as much as you try to dismiss what happened, you can't help feeling that, every so often, the tomato seems to be dragging your hand more than you're hand is carrying the tomato. Again, you try to push it to the back of your mind

Amazed that you haven't been sacked, only given another formal warning, you put the tomato in your desk drawer and get on with the day's paperwork. Working in an office isn't a great job, you reflect, but it gets you out of the house... which, similarly, isn't a great house, but it gets you out of work, especially on those days when the roof falls in and pins you to the kitchen floor. The pub often gets you out of both, and consequently wins hands down

You hear a thud from your drawer. Then a second. Then... more of a squelch. You take a peek inside and see squashed tomato all around the inside of the drawer. Seeds are scattered liberally among the elastic bands and paperclips. Sections of skin lie draped over the holepunch and the electric pencil sharpener which you still haven't managed to smuggle home. And, at the back of the drawer, in the darkness, the stapler seems to be dancing a small jig.

Your heart, which had been getting louder and louder seemingly in your throat, skips a beat... a pause just long enough for you to hear a quiet ghostly voice singing "Finally, I'm out of that tomato... I've got a new place to live, doo-dah, doo-dah..."

You decide to padlock the drawer shut and skip the country.

Viva La....... Paris

You padlock your drawer shut and rush for Waterloo Station, you intend to take the EuroStar striaght to Paris. However on searching your pockets and consequently your purse (it was a gift from your mother she always wanted a daughter) you discover you have only 50. Remembering that the last time you looked at your acount you was at -5000 you decide that you will just get to France and then make your way top Paris by hitchhiking the rest of the way.

You buy your ticket and just catch the train as you feel relief flooding your body. But just then you look out the window as you do you see the stapler running towards the train. Unfortunately for you at least it is not squashed by the train and it manages to jump on board...

You decide to wait for the stapler to run into your carriage.

Voulez-Vous Coucher Avec Moi Ce Soir?

Cringing, you remain in your seat. The stapler then walks into your carriage.

"Is this seat taken?" it asks in a burlesquy female voice, pointing to the seat right next to you.

"PLEASE DON'T HURT ME!!!" you yell, still cringing.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I don't believe I've formally introduced myself. My name is Susan. I'm on my way to Paris. Unfortunately, since I'm quite the cheapskate, I'm simply taking the train to France, then hitchhiking the rest of the way to Paris."

"What a coincidence," you say. "I'm on my way to Paris too! And I'm also quite the cheapskate, therefore I'm doing the exact same thing as you."

"Really? Well, then why don't we go there together?"

And so, you do exactly that. Sure enough, after your little train ride, and a sojourn spent in the back of a pickup truck, you and Susan the Stapler suddenly find yourselves in a nice fancy restaurant in Champs Elysees.

You decide to wake up and realise it was all a dream.

Dreams Can Come True

In a bid to wake yourself up, you pinch yourself hard on the arm. Your surroundings blur and for a split-second gravity seems to pull you in the wrong direction. Almost as soon as the sensation appears it is gone again, as is the whole of Paris. Curiously, the noise of les voitures Francais speeding past is still present. You open your eyes and find yourself staring up at a waiter, who seems very confused as to why one of his patrons decided to pinch himself and fall off his chair. You pick yourself up.

A man in a dark coat at the other end of the terrace jots something in a notepad. He seems very interested in what you're doing - but at the same time, intent on you not noticing. Your initial thought is that he's doing a lousy job... until it occurs to you that he may have been following you since you were 5.

The bump which has risen on the back of your head tells you that, no matter how much you may want to wake up and realise it's all a dream, you can't and it's not. You rub it, which makes it worse. You stop, which makes it worse. You rub it again, which is excruciating. You decide to leave it alone in the hopes that it will do the same. In the meantime, Susan the stapler has ordered what turned out to be the last of the escargot. The plate arrives in front of her, looking a little like a negative of slightly-melted marshmallows on an old LP. The waiter, finally happy that you're not going to injure yourself again, walks over to the menu and rubs "escargot" away with an unobservant patron's coat sleeve. Upset because you quite fancied snails, you check out your other options.

You decide to order frogs' legs en croute a l'orange.

Wrong dish?

You find a nice dish on the menu, named "frogs' legs en croute a l'orange", and you try to inform the waiter with your staggering french that you want to try it. The words form in your brain as "frogs' legs en croute a l'orange", but mutates while speeding the way from the brain to the mouth and leaves the mouth as "floggyleges and crotch a leresomethingsomething". The waiter nods, as in understanding, and walks away.

He had never experienced a customer ordering fried swine testicles covered in melted plastic, but if he wanted it, he would get it, he thought.

So you lean backwards to wait for your dish. Susan the Stapler does the same, and you two start a discussion about which side of the bread you should butter; the plain side or the other plain side. The discussion comes along fine...

...until a thud is heard at the door.

And another.

And another.

And suddenly it breaks down. In comes a mysteriously familiar red little ball floating...

"It's...!" you exclaim, if it can be called an exclamation when only built from one word.

"You ditched me!" the tomato says, but not to you, but to Susan the Stapler. "Feel my wrath!"

"Oh, Ketchuck, you're just too bad to be true!" Susan replies. "You just had to track me down and try to kill me and my new date, now didn't you?"

"Hey, wait", you say, "I don't have anything to do with..."

"Precisely!" the tomato grunts. "Both you and him must die!"

You decide to activate your hidden super powers.

Super Powers of Doom

hat Super Power do you want to use?

Nobody's written what happens next. How about another random story?