- Email: I’d like this really complicated piece of work sent back to me by this impossible deadline.
Reply: And I’d like a Burberry coat, a set of Wüsthof steak knives, a Mr Whippy ice-cream machine to have in my bedroom, and a pony – what’s your point?
- Email: I’m sorry, but I’m dumping you.
Reply: Thank you for formalising the end to our relationship in writing. I understand your reasons, of course, and want to leave things on a positive note. Therefore I want you to know I don’t agree with everyone who says you are a self-serving, morally ambiguous Mummy’s boy who wouldn’t know a day’s work if it slapped him in the face. Nor do I agree that your legs are disproportionately short for your body and that the pitch of your voice always makes you sound like you’re frightened. I don’t know why all your friends – and even some people who hardly even know you – say that. Be happy. P.S. If your brother tells you I slept with him twice, he’s lying. It was only once and to be fair, you *had* forgotten our anniversary. It was dark, I was drunk, he has the same shrill voice…
- Email: Save the date for Lucy’s hen weekend!
Reply: Sorry, I just don’t think inflatable penises are funny. I think they are even less funny when I have paid £350 to see one. I don’t want to do vodka shots or wear fairy wings or try to remember the Whigfield routine. Really wracking my brains for anything I’d like to do less… no, nothing’s coming to me…
- Email: I’m doing a ski-crawl round Europe’s best resorts to raise money for endangered Abyssinian monkeys.
Reply: Just so we’re clear – you want me to help pay for your skiing holiday? How do the monkeys even come into this? Why don’t I just donate to the monkeys? Wait – I don’t care about the monkeys. I got bitten by a monkey in monkey sanctuary in India on my gap year and had to have a really painful tetanus injection in my arse. I hate those bastards. Also I haven’t been skiing since my parents paid for me to go in Upper Four, where our PE teacher got drunk and told us about her husband’s erectile dysfunction while we were trying to eat our raclette – so…well, you can see where I’m going with this…..
- Email: Come to our joint 40th in Sardinia!
Reply: I just tried to work out how much this would cost me if I said yes, but had to stop, as my head exploded like the Death Star at the end of the original Star Wars, sending violent atmospheric reverberations across the entire galaxy. Also you’re both grotesque when you’re drunk. I mean really, really boring. Like pull-your-eyes-out-of-your-head-just-so-you-have-something-to-throw annoying. Why can’t you have your stupid party at your house or at worst, the end of your road? This from people who gave me a PAPERBACK that I didn’t even enjoy for my birthday.
- Email: Be part of our recipe-exchange programme!
Reply: I will not be doing that.