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Dear Sir: Morrison’s Reply

Upon returning home from work, I opened my front door to a cavalcade of letters, scooting down my hallway like a paper avalanche. Most, of course, were the plain whte envelope of the style my mother prefers - they would all be covered in her spidery script, and would contain missives enquiring after my health and asking whether or not I had enough clean pants to last me the week (I do). But buried underneath the mountainous pile of parental angst was a single A5 letter with a yellow strip across the bottom. Printed in large green, Times New Roman capital letters was the world ‘Morrisons’.

They had replied to our letter about the shoddiness of their Scotch Eggs! With an excitement potent enough to make my nipples stick out like bullets, I whipped the letter into my arms and cradled it as if it were my own child. I shouted up the stairs.

“Paul! It’s Morrisons! They’ve written to us!”

The rustling of security chains and clanking sound of several masturbation-privacy-ensuring bolts slamming back signified the opening of Paul’s bedroom door, and he bounded downstairs, three steps at a time. Or at least, he would have done had he not tripped and slid the last eight steps in a dreadfully ungainly manner, using his face as a brake.

Ignoring his pitiful wails, I tore open the letter. What would it contain? Clearly, as it was a slim volume, it did not contain any replacement Scotch Eggs. But maybe it contained vouchers for Scotch Eggs, or a phone number we could ring for more Scotch Eggs, or perhaps even a promise for the CEO of Morrisons to come round and bring some of his mother’s home made Scotch Eggs. The possibilities were endless and, frankly, arousing.

I slid the piece of paper out and raised it to eye level. My eyes moved, Inspector Gadget style, as they took in the text, hunting out a few hopeful words, namely “free” “scotch eggs” and “lifetime supply”.

But alas, alas. Morrisons displayed a stunning lack of humour. No free Scotch Egg, let alone Eggs. No offer to marry the Reigate Store Manager’s daughter. No proclamation that their penises are flaccid and unused, whilst ours are vibrant and throbbing. Nothing.

Paul and I vowed, from this day forwards, that we would never, ever again procure Scotch Eggs from the Reigate branch of Morrisons.