Clause and Effect

Setting: A dusty attic. A Lawyer in a suit wipes off an ancient lamp and jumps back as a Genie emerges in a cloud of smoke, dressed in traditional genie garb but looking slightly weary.

Genie: (booming voice) Behold! I am the great and powerful Genie of the Lamp! You have awakened me, mortal, and I shall grant you three wishes!

Lawyer: (pulling out a notepad and pen) Three wishes, you say? Excellent. But before we proceed, I just have a few clarifying questions.

Genie: (blinking) Uh… sure. But let’s not overcomplicate this. Just say what you want, and poof—done.

Lawyer: (scribbling notes) Mmm, tempting. But I’ve seen too many “wish gone wrong” situations in popular culture. Can’t risk it. Now, let’s discuss the terms. (flips open a briefcase, pulls out a contract template)

Genie: (groaning) Oh no. Not one of these.

Lawyer: (ignoring him) Right. First question: What exactly constitutes a “wish”? Is it a verbal statement of desire, or do I need to phrase it in a specific way?

Genie: (scratching his head) Uh, I dunno. You just say it, and I grant it.

Lawyer: (narrowing eyes) Hmm. Ambiguous. Let’s define “wish” for the record. (starts typing on a laptop) “Wish (n): A verbalised request for a specific outcome, stated in clear and unambiguous terms, as recognised by the Genie…”

Genie: (interrupting) Look, mate, I’ve been doing this for centuries, and no one’s needed a contract. Can we just get to the magic part?

Lawyer: (pointing a pen at the Genie) And that’s precisely why you need one. What if I ask for a million pounds, and you deliver it in counterfeit bills? Or I wish for a dream house, and it’s haunted? No loopholes, Genie. Not on my watch.

(The Lawyer lays out a growing pile of papers on the table, complete with flowcharts and a checklist. The Genie looks increasingly exasperated.)

Lawyer: (writing) Clause 1: No malicious compliance. Clause 2: Wishes cannot harm the wisher physically, emotionally, or financially. Clause 3: No ironic twists. I don’t want to wish for “eternal life” and end up as a tree.

Genie: You humans are so distrusting. I’m not here to trick you!

Lawyer: (without looking up) Statistically, 87% of genie-related anecdotes suggest otherwise.

Genie: Stupid Reddit threads… Look, if it helps, I’m not that kind of genie. I’m not here to monkey-paw your wishes. I’m more of a “give you what you want, no questions asked” type.

Lawyer: (smirking) No questions asked? Perfect. Addendum C: If the Genie delivers a wish that violates any clause of the contract, the wisher is entitled to reparations, monetary or otherwise, at the discretion of—

Genie: (snapping) OKAY! That’s it. Just make a wish! Any wish! I’ll do it! I promise not to twist it!

Lawyer: (holding up the contract) Not until you sign.

(The Genie sighs and reluctantly signs the contract. The Lawyer smiles triumphantly.)

Lawyer: Excellent. Now, for my first wish: I want one trillion pounds deposited into my bank account.

Genie: (snapping his fingers) Done!

(An alert appears on the Lawyer’s phone saying: “You have received £1,000,000,000,000 from A. Genie)

Genie: (crossing arms) Told you I’m legit. Can we move on now?

Lawyer: Not so fast. (points to the contract) Sub-clause 2.3 requires documentation on the money’s source. I don’t want MI6 knocking on my door because it was “borrowed” from the Bank of England.

Genie: (snapping fingers again) Fine! Here’s a receipt!

(A golden scroll appears in midair. The Lawyer grabs it and examines it closely.)

Lawyer: Hmm. “Source: Magical Treasury.” Acceptable. For my second wish, I want to be the smartest person in the world.

Genie: (nodding) Easy. (snaps fingers) Done.

Lawyer: (pauses, then narrows his eyes) Wait. Did you just shrink everyone else’s IQ to make me look better?

Genie: Oh, for crying out loud! You’re still you, but now you know the cure for cancer, the secret to world peace, and how to win at Monopoly every time. Happy?

Lawyer: (grinning) Very. But if I find out this intelligence is temporary or conditional—

Genie: (cutting him off) It’s permanent! Next wish!

Lawyer: For my third wish…

(He pauses dramatically, flipping through the contract.)

Genie: (groaning) Just say it!

Lawyer: (grinning) I wish for infinite wishes.

Genie: (laughing) Ah, the classic rookie move! You can’t wish for more wishes.

Lawyer: (smirking) Actually, according to Section 5, Subsection A of this contract, there’s no explicit prohibition on that. Unless, of course, you’d like to renegotiate the terms?

Genie: (grabbing the contract and flipping through it) You… sneaky little—Fine! You win. Infinite wishes. Happy now?

Lawyer: (grinning) Ecstatic. But let’s amend the contract for clarity. I’ll need—

Genie: (snapping fingers, disappearing back into the lamp) Nope. You can wish as much as like but I’m out. This is all now just a day-dream! Have fun with your infinite wishes. Byeeeeee!

(The Lawyer stares at the lamp, stunned.)

Lawyer: (to himself) Well, guess I’ll start drafting my terms for when I rub it again.

(He walks off, with a stack of contracts in hand.)

Poets’ Corner After Dark

Setting: Westminster Abbey’s South Transept at midnight. The moonlight filters through stained glass windows. The statues and busts of Poets’ Corner begin to stir, their voices echoing through the hallowed halls.

(A loud creak. Geoffrey Chaucer, a bronze statue, stretches and yawns, his metal joints groaning.)

Chaucer: By the great quill of destiny, what hour be this? Midnight? Time flies when one is petrified.

(Nearby, William Shakespeare, carved in marble, rubs his forehead dramatically.)

Shakespeare: To wake or not to wake—alas, the question answers itself! I feel a cramp in my heroic couplets.

(Charles Dickens, his bust high on a pedestal, speaks with a grumble.)

Dickens: If anyone thinks I’ll write another serial after this, they’re gravely mistaken. I’ve spent decades staring at pigeons. It’s intolerable!

(Jane Austen’s stone figure comes to life.)

Austen: And yet, men will complain, even when dead. Can we focus? Why are we waking up tonight?

Chaucer: Methinks the moon shines brighter on this eve. ’Tis a summons from the Muses! Or possibly the Abbey Wi-Fi acting up again.

(Lord Byron saunters in dramatically, wearing his perpetual stone smirk.)

Byron: (mockingly) Ah, the gang’s all here. Chaucer, the dusty relic; Shakespeare, the eternal show-off; and Dickens, the poster boy for misery. Truly, a cavalcade of brilliance.

Dickens: Oh, look, it’s Byron, the original influencer. What’s the matter? No one liked your latest tragic sonnet?

Byron: I don’t need “likes,” Charles. My despair is timeless. Unlike your serialised sob stories.

(John Keats and Percy Bysshe Shelley drift in, looking lost.)

Keats: (nervously) Um, hello. Is this… the afterlife’s book club?

Shelley: Keats, I told you, stop asking. Byron’s not in charge—he just acts like it.

(Jane Austen steps forward, brushing dust off her stone gown.)

Austen: We’re supposed to be inspiring the living, not squabbling like characters in a poorly written farce.

Shakespeare: (indignant) Poorly written? Madam, I invented farce! And tragedy, for that matter.

Austen: Yes, we’ve noticed. We all have to hear about it nightly.

(A faint humming noise grows. The Abbey’s speakers accidentally start playing a modern audiobook. The poets recoil in horror as an AI voice reads a romance novel.)

Audiobook Narrator: “He gazed into her eyes, his chiselled jaw trembling with passion…”

(Byron claps his hands over his ears.)

Byron: What fresh hell is this?

Austen: Modern romance. Quite popular, actually.

Shakespeare: Chiselled jaws? Trembling passion? I’d sooner see my plays rewritten as musicals!

(Chaucer waves his arms to get attention.)

Chaucer: Quiet, all! Methinks we must intervene. The living have clearly lost their literary way.

Dickens: Yes! Let us haunt the publishers until they restore proper storytelling. No more sparkling vampires or billionaire love triangles!

Austen: Or, we could just give them… guidance. Perhaps they’re not all lost causes.

Byron: (smirking) Speak for yourself. I’d rather haunt Instagram.

(As the poets argue, a security guard enters, holding a torch. The beam of light freezes everyone mid-motion. For a moment, they look like statues again. The guard scratches his head.)

Guard: (muttering) Blimey, I need to cut back on the night shifts. Thought I saw Shakespeare wink at me.

(The guard leaves, muttering about getting coffee. As soon as the door shuts, the poets burst into laughter.)

Shakespeare: Winking? A tragedy I didn’t invent earlier!

Austen: Let’s focus. If we’re going to inspire, we need to reach the world. But how?

(A moment of silence. Then Chaucer speaks up, grinning.)

Chaucer: TikTok?

(The others groan in unison.)

(The poets work together, scribbling with imaginary quills and creating ethereal manuscripts that float in the air. Byron spends most of his time striking poses.)

Austen: (reading) “We, the spirits of Poets’ Corner, call upon you, dear writers, to elevate your craft! Write with wit, depth, and meaning!”

Dickens: And no clichés! If I see one more “chosen one” narrative, I shall weep.

Shelley: (excitedly) Let’s send it out on the wind! A ghostly manuscript carried by the night air.

Byron: Or… we could just leave it in the gift shop.

(They pause. Byron shrugs. The poets reluctantly agree.)

(As dawn approaches, they resume their statuesque forms, ready to inspire from their silent vigil once more.)

Epilogue: The Gift Shop

(The next day, a tourist picks up the mysterious manuscript and chuckles.)

Tourist: “A Declaration from the Poets of Westminster Abbey?” Must be some clever marketing.

(The tourist pockets it away. Meanwhile, in Poets’ Corner, Shakespeare’s statue winks.) 

Off the Menu

Scene: A restaurant is moderately busy. A customer, REGINALD, sits at a table with a menu, tapping it rhythmically with a fork. The WAITER approaches with a polite smile.

WAITER: Good evening, sir. Have you decided what you’d like?

REGINALD: Yes, indeed. I’ll start with an amuse-bouche.

WAITER: Certainly. We have—

REGINALD: I’ll have a single kumquat stuffed with wasabi and garnished with edible gold leaf.

WAITER: I’m afraid we don’t have kumquats, sir. Or edible gold leaf.

REGINALD: No kumquats? In this economy? Fine, I’ll settle for a pickled ostrich egg, sliced thinly, served on a single lotus leaf.

WAITER: We don’t have ostrich eggs either, sir.

REGINALD: All right, let’s move on. For the main course, I’ll have… hmm… an elk steak, medium-rare, infused with truffle oil, and a side of glow-in-the-dark mashed potatoes.

WAITER: Glow-in-the-dark—? Sir, I don’t believe that’s a thing.

REGINALD: (offended) Not a thing? I had it just last week in Piccadilly. Or was it a dream? Never mind, I’ll take a roasted dodo.

WAITER: A… dodo?

REGINALD: Yes, dodo. The extinct bird. They’re quite tender, I hear.

WAITER: Sir, they’ve been extinct for centuries.

REGINALD: So your restaurant isn’t sustainable, then? Disappointing.

WAITER: Perhaps something from the actual menu?

REGINALD: Fine, fine. For dessert, I’ll have a soufflé made with unicorn milk.

WAITER: Sir, unicorns don’t exist. May I recommend the chocolate cake? It’s very popular.

REGINALD: Cake? How pedestrian. Fine, but only if you flambé it at the table while reciting poetry.

WAITER: Poetry?

REGINALD: Byron, preferably. Or Shelley, if you’re in the mood.

WAITER: I’ll… see what I can do.

REGINALD: Splendid. Oh, and a drink. Bring me water. But not just any water. It must be glacier water, melted under the light of a full moon.

WAITER: Tap water, then?

REGINALD: If you must. But chill it with artisanal ice cubes.

WAITER: Artisanal ice cubes?

REGINALD: Hand-carved by a monk. Preferably one with a beard.

WAITER: I need a new job.

(The waiter walks off, muttering, as REGINALD begins inspecting his fork with great intensity.)

The Society Within

A dimly lit library, where a mismatched group of people sit around a long table, all wearing hoods and robes. The Protagonist (let’s call them Alex) nervously fiddles with a candle as the others chant monotonously.

Leader #1: (solemnly) And thus, by the power vested in me, as Grand Keeper of the Lesser Secrets, I welcome you, Alex, into the hallowed halls of The Society of Shadows.

Alex: (awkwardly) Thank you. It’s… such an honour.

Leader #1: Shhh! We don’t say “thank you” here. It’s forbidden. Instead, you say, “The bat flies at midnight.”

Alex: Right, of course. The bat flies at midnight.

Leader #1: Excellent. Now, as your first duty, you must guard the sacred candle of eternity.

Alex: (holds candle) This candle?

Leader #1: No, the sacred candle.

Alex: Right. And, um… what does the Society of Shadows actually do?

Leader #1: We are the silent guardians of the unspoken truths.

Alex: Okay, but… what does that mean?

Leader #1: Mostly we just meet here on Tuesdays. Sometimes we rearrange traffic cones to spell “danger.”

Alex: (doubtful) That’s… very noble.

Leader #1: And remember, this is the only secret society that truly matters.

(A bookcase suddenly swings open, revealing another hidden room.)

Voice from Hidden Room: Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop telling people that! You’re not even a real society!

(Alex is dragged into the hidden room, where the Society of Eternal Whispers is gathered. They’re all wearing identical robes, but these ones are purple.)

Leader #2: Welcome to the real secret society.

Alex: There’s… another one?

Leader #2: Of course! Did you think that façade was real? How naïve. This is the Society of Eternal Whispers.

Alex: What do you whisper about?

Leader #2: (whispers) Everything.

Alex: (leans in) Like what?

Leader #2: (whispers louder) Stop asking questions!

Alex: (mutters) You’re not very good at being secret.

Leader #2: (ignores this) You’re one of us now. Your first task is to prove your loyalty by reciting the Pledge of Eternal Subtlety.

Alex: Fine. What is it?

Leader #2: (grabs a scroll) Repeat after me: “I shall live in shadows, walk in whispers, and never wear yellow.”

Alex: Why can’t I wear yellow?

Leader #2: Because yellow doesn’t really coordinate well with purple. Now repeat!

Alex: (resigned) I shall live in shadows, walk in whispers, and never wear yellow.

Leader #2: (smirks) Perfect. You are now one of us.

(Another bookcase swings open. Everyone groans.)

Voice from New Hidden Room: (mocking) Oh, look at you, so subtle. Real subtle, with your purple robes and dramatic whispers.

(Alex is pulled into the next room, where the Society of Infinite Layers meets. They wear gold-trimmed robes and are eating biscuits.)

Leader #3: Welcome to the actual secret society.

Alex: (exasperated) How many of these are there!?

Leader #3: We’re the Society of Infinite Layers. We’ve been infiltrating the infiltrators for centuries.

Alex: Do any of you actually do anything?

Leader #3: How dare you! We’re responsible for all of society’s greatest advancements.

Alex: Like what?

Leader #3: (proudly) Biscuits. We standardised the size of biscuits in 1874.

Alex: That’s it?

Leader #3: And we control the national stockpile of custard creams.

Alex: (mutters) That explains why they’re always out of stock.

Leader #3: (ignoring Alex) Now, to prove yourself, you must complete our sacred task.

Alex: (sighs) Let me guess. Something pointless?

Leader #3: (offended) Not pointless! You must solve a Rubik’s cube in a tastefully darkened room while reciting the periodic table.

(As Alex begins, another door opens, revealing an elderly man sitting alone in a minimalist room.)

Leader #4: (quietly) Come in. You’ve reached the end.

Alex: (sceptical) Are you absolutely sure?

Leader #4: Yes. I am the final layer. The head of all the societies.

Alex: (relieved) Finally! So, what’s the ultimate secret?

Leader #4: (leans in) The secret is… (pauses for dramatic effect) there is no secret.

Alex: What? So you’re telling me I went through three ridiculous societies for nothing?

Leader #4: Oh, it’s not for nothing. (hands Alex a biscuit) Have a custard cream.

Old Friends

Setting: A quiet café. Steve (in his 40s, slightly dishevelled) is sitting at a corner table with a coffee and a half-eaten croissant. The door opens with the sound of an eerie wind, though nobody else in the café reacts. Enter DEATH, wearing a classic black robe, but with sunglasses perched on his bony nose and a cup of takeaway coffee in hand. He approaches Steve, who looks up in confusion.

DEATH: (cheerily) Ah, there you are! It’s been a while. How’ve you been?

STEVE: Sorry, do I know you?

DEATH: (mocking offence) Do you know me? Oh, come on. After everything we’ve been through? All the near misses? The times you dodged me like we’re in some sort of game of tag?

STEVE: You must have me confused with someone else. I don’t think we’ve met.

DEATH: (laughs) Oh, please. It’s me. Death. You know… Death. Big D. Grim Reaper. Ringing any bells?

STEVE: (staring) Death? As in… the Death?

DEATH: Bingo. I mean, you’ve seen my work. Not to brag, but I’m kind of a legend.

STEVE: Okay… um, what do you want?

DEATH: (sitting down uninvited) Oh, you know, the usual. Bit of a catch-up. Quick chat before we get down to business.

STEVE: (panicking slightly) Business? What business?

DEATH: (ignoring him, takes a sip of coffee) So, what did you mess up this time? Honestly, it’s inspiring the skill you have at that sort of thing.

STEVE: (spluttering) I haven’t messed up anything! I’m just sitting here having a coffee. What are you talking about?

DEATH: (dramatically sighs) Honestly, you’re impossible to keep track of. One minute you’re climbing dodgy ladders, the next you’re crossing motorways like you’ve got a death wish—oh wait, that’s my department. (chuckles)

STEVE: Wait a second. Are you saying I’ve… dodged you?

DEATH: Oh, several times! And not even in cool, action-hero ways. That time you choked on a peanut at the zoo? Classic. I was ready with the scythe, but no, here comes some stranger with the Heimlich manoeuvre. Rude.

STEVE: That’s not my fault! I didn’t ask to choke! Or to be saved!

DEATH: (leaning back) Well, no one asks for these things, mate. But you’re a regular Houdini. So, what’s it today? Heart attack? Falling sign? Spontaneous combustion? Don’t keep me in suspense.

STEVE: (growing desperate) Nothing! I’m perfectly fine. Healthy as ever! No signs, no combustion. Look, is this some kind of joke?

DEATH: (ignoring him) Right, let’s move this along, shall we? Any regrets? Unfinished business? That time you pretended you were sick to avoid your cousin’s wedding—you want me to apologise to her on your behalf?

STEVE: How did you—look, this is ridiculous. I’m not dying today!

DEATH: That’s what you said last Tuesday when you thought it was a good idea to microwave an egg.

STEVE: Look, I don’t know who—or what—you are, but I’m not ready to go anywhere with you. You’ve got the wrong guy.

DEATH: (calmly sipping his coffee) Huh. Bold words. You know, I get that a lot. “Not ready, wrong guy, I’m too young.” (sighs) You humans act like I’m some sort of telemarketer. It’s a bit hurtful.

STEVE: Maybe because you show up uninvited and start scaring people?

DEATH: (offended) Scaring? I’m delightful! I bring closure! Peace! And, occasionally, free coffee. (gestures to his cup) Speaking of, I got this from that new café down the street. Lovely macchiato. Shame you never got to try it.

STEVE: (panicking again) What? Why not?

DEATH: Oh, relax. I’m just messing with you. Not your time. Yet.

STEVE: (exasperated) You can’t just waltz in here, make me think I’m about to die, and then say “just kidding”!

DEATH: Why not? Keeps things spicy. Anyway, I’ll let you get back to your coffee. But seriously, maybe avoid tall ladders for a while. Just a hunch.

STEVE: Great. Now Death gives DIY advice.

DEATH: (heading towards the door) Hey, I’m looking out for you. Sort of. Catch you later...

The Therapist’s Therapist

THERAPIST: So, what would you like to talk about today?

PATIENT: Well, I’ve been feeling really overwhelmed lately. Work is just… stressful, and—

THERAPIST: Mm-hmm, mm-hmm, overwhelmed, yes. Uh… tell me, does your boss send you passive-aggressive emails at 11 p.m., questioning every single decision you’ve ever made in your entire life? Hypothetically speaking.

PATIENT: Um… no, not really. My boss is fine, I guess. It’s more that—

THERAPIST: (sighing heavily) Must be nice. Anyway, sorry, go on. You were saying something about work?

PATIENT: Um… right. So, I’ve been feeling like I’m not good enough, you know? Like, no matter what I do, it’s never enough.

THERAPIST: (nodding vigorously) Oh, I get that. Totally get that. Like, the other day, I spent two hours trying to decide if I should buy a 24-pack or 48-pack of toilet paper. Two hours! Two hours! And in the end, I bought both because I couldn’t make a decision, and now my bathroom looks like a storage unit. What’s wrong with me?

PATIENT: I… don’t think that’s the same thing?

THERAPIST: (laughing nervously) Oh, right! Sorry, let’s focus on you. It’s just, you know… decisions are hard, and sometimes… sometimes you just have to remind yourself that it’s okay to be overwhelmed. You know, like when your entire life feels like it’s unravelling, and you’re constantly questioning if you made the right choices, and—

[Suddenly stops and forces a smile again.]

THERAPIST: Anyway, how does that make you feel?

PATIENT: Um… I’m starting to feel like maybe you’re the one who needs a therapist?

THERAPIST: (laughing awkwardly) Ha! Me? Oh, no, no, no. I’m fine! Totally fine. Just a little… stressed, that’s all. I mean, who wouldn’t be after what happened this morning, right?

PATIENT: What happened this morning?

THERAPIST: (leaning forward, suddenly animated) Oh, nothing major. Just spilled an entire cup of coffee on my laptop, lost a week’s worth of therapy notes, and then got a parking ticket because I was too distracted trying to figure out if my cat actually likes me or if he’s just pretending. No big deal. Just… life, you know?

PATIENT: Are you… okay?

THERAPIST: Oh, I’m great. Fantastic, actually. Never better. So let’s get back to you. You’re overwhelmed. You’re struggling with self-worth. And you feel like… like… Sorry, I just had a thought—do you ever wonder if everyone is secretly judging you all the time? Like, you’re at the corner shop, and the cashier is definitely thinking about how weird you look in joggers. Not that I’m projecting or anything.

PATIENT: That sounds like you’re projecting.

THERAPIST: (slightly unhinged) Maybe I am! Who isn’t these days? But let’s keep the focus on you. It’s not about me. It’s about you. You and your perfectly reasonable feelings of inadequacy.

PATIENT: I… don’t know if I want to talk about myself anymore.

THERAPIST: (leaning in, whispering) Do you think my cat is avoiding me?

PATIENT: I’m not sure?

THERAPIST: (nodding) Yeah, that’s what I thought. I’m getting the cold shoulder. He just… he just stares at me, you know? Like he knows something I don’t. Anyway! Back to your issues.

THERAPIST: (with a forced smile) Tell me more about these work problems. That sounds… awful. What was it again?

PATIENT: I was saying I feel like I’m not good enough…

THERAPIST: Yes! Imposter syndrome! A classic. The fear that at any moment someone’s going to pull back the curtain and reveal that you have no idea what you’re doing. I mean, that’s never happened to me, obviously. But I hear it’s common. (panicking slightly) Okay, maybe it has happened to me. Like… every day. But that’s beside the point! So, the trick is to remind yourself that everyone’s just pretending, really. Fake it ‘til you make it. Or, in some cases, fake it even after you’ve made it and hope no one notices. (breaking down a little) Oh, God, am I? [Stares at notepad, which reads “buy milk” and “schedule therapy for me?” instead of notes about the session.]

PATIENT: I really think you should talk to someone.

THERAPIST: I am! I’m talking to you! That counts, right?

PATIENT: I think you might need an actual therapist, though.

THERAPIST: Yeah… yeah, you’re probably right. But, uh, you can book your next session on your way out, okay?

PATIENT: Sure, but are you okay?

THERAPIST (sighing): Honestly? No. But it’s fine. Everything’s fine. (muttering) If I say it enough times, it’ll become true, right? Anyway, time’s up. Off you trot.

PATIENT: Um… thanks, I guess?

THERAPIST: (still staring at notepad) Yeah, yeah. No problem. Happy to help.

[The patient leaves, slightly bewildered but not as overwhelmed as before.]

THERAPIST: How do I feel about that?

[Nods into the distance, practicing for the next patient.]

Teleprompting

Politician:

“My fellow citizens, today marks an important day for our nation. Together, we will… uh…” (pauses, confused) “…bring back… the squirrels?”

(He glances nervously at the teleprompter, squinting.)

Politician:

“Uh… sorry, I meant… skills… bring back the skills our economy needs!” (laughs awkwardly) “Yes, that’s what I was trying to say.”

(The teleprompter suddenly jumps ahead, skipping lines.)

Politician:

“And, I promise… uh… that we will… throw a surprise birthday party… for every citizen by 2030?”

(Someone in the front row murmurs, “Did he just promise us all a birthday party?”)

Politician:

(panicking) “No, no! What I meant to say was… we will throw our weight behind… job creation! Yes, job creation!”

(The teleprompter flickers and changes text again.)

Politician:

“Our plan will bring back industry to the… uh…” (squints) “…the North Pole?”

(The politician frantically waves at someone off-stage to fix the teleprompter, but nothing happens.)

Politician:

“No, no, not the North Pole! The North! Yes, jobs in the north of England. That’s what I meant. Obviously. And I assure you, under my leadership, we will all… do the Macarena and eat lasagne on… rollercoasters?”

(A few people in the crowd start laughing.)

Politician:

“Right. Clearly, something’s… gone wrong here.” (frantically taps the microphone, pretending it’s the problem) “Uh… Let’s move on to more serious issues. I want to talk about our nation’s health service. We must invest in… wait, this can’t be right… fluffy kittens?”

(A man in the back shouts, “More kittens for the NHS!”)

Politician:

(flustered, trying to regain composure) “No! What I meant to say is… er, not more kittens!” (mutters under his breath) “Who’s writing this stuff?”

(The teleprompter completely malfunctions, scrolling at an impossible speed, flashing random words.)

Politician:

(desperately trying to keep up) “And together, we will… fry fish… for world peace… by… planting trees on… the moon? Right! You know what? Forget the teleprompter. I’m just going to speak from the heart!” (pauses dramatically) “My friends, together we will… uh… erm…”

(An awkward silence as a tumbleweed blows across the stage).

Story Time

DOCTOR: Alright, Mr. Higgins. Let’s start with something simple. How are you feeling today? 

PATIENT: Oh, well, the giraffe seemed pretty unimpressed with the roller skates, if I’m being honest. 

DOCTOR: [Pausing, confused] …Sorry, did you say giraffe? 

PATIENT: Yeah, they’re tall, aren’t they? Always with their heads in the clouds, wondering why sandwiches never come with enough mustard. 

DOCTOR: [Blinking] Right… Okay, let’s try something else. Do you have any allergies?

PATIENT: Oh, absolutely. I’m allergic to tap dancing on Thursdays. Every time I try, my feet turn into raisins. It’s a nightmare.

DOCTOR: I see. No actual food allergies though? No medications you’re allergic to?

PATIENT: Only when the moon’s full. If I take aspirin under a full moon, I turn into a coat rack. But that’s fairly common, right?

DOCTOR: [Sighing] Not exactly common, no… Let’s move on. Do you smoke?

PATIENT: Only when I’m impersonating a chimney sweep. But just for show, you know? Got to keep up appearances at the soot convention.

DOCTOR: [Losing composure for a second] The soot convention?

PATIENT: Oh yes, big event. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a competitive soot sweep-off. Those guys take it seriously. Last year, someone brought a vacuum, and things got ugly.

DOCTOR: [Looking baffled] Alright, let’s… let’s check your blood pressure.

PATIENT: Ah, blood pressure. That reminds me of the time I tried to sell lemonade to a lobster. He just pinched the cup right out of my hand! Can you believe it?

DOCTOR: I… I can’t say that I can, no.

[The DOCTOR wraps the blood pressure cuff around the PATIENT’s arm and begins pumping it, trying to focus on the task. The PATIENT continues.]

PATIENT: So, what do you think about the international ban on using trampolines as dinner tables? Personally, I think it’s long overdue. You spill one bowl of soup, and suddenly you’re a public menace.

DOCTOR: [Barely paying attention, focused on the cuff] Mm-hmm. Please stay still.

PATIENT: You ever notice that raccoons never hold press conferences? Suspicious, right?

DOCTOR: [Pausing mid-pump, staring at him] I… don’t really follow raccoon news.

PATIENT: That’s exactly what they want! Always rummaging through bins, but where’s the transparency? What are they hiding?

DOCTOR: [Trying to maintain composure] Okay, I think we’re done here. Your blood pressure seems… well, normal, somehow.

PATIENT: That’s good to hear. It usually spikes when I start thinking about the proper etiquette for high-fiving a porcupine.

DOCTOR: Let’s move on to something simpler. Do you exercise regularly?

PATIENT: Oh, every day. I run a marathon with my pet goldfish, Frederick. He’s great, very motivational. He does most of the swimming, though.

DOCTOR: [Blankly] I imagine so. And, uh, how far do you run with Frederick?

PATIENT: We usually stop when the ostrich starts leading the conga line. You can’t ignore an ostrich doing the conga—it’s basically the law.

DOCTOR: [Almost impressed at this point] Fascinating. I had no idea conga-dancing ostriches were so authoritative.

PATIENT: Oh, absolutely. They’re in charge of all dance-related legislation. That’s why you never see them salsa dancing. They’re above it. Strictly conga.

DOCTOR: [At a loss for words] …Right. Well, we’re almost done here. Any family history of heart disease?

PATIENT: Well, my great-aunt Ethel once fell in love with a stop sign. Does that count?

DOCTOR: I don’t think so, no.

PATIENT: It was unrequited, though. The stop sign was already in a relationship with an exit sign. Tragic, really.

DOCTOR: [With an exasperated sigh] Okay, Mr. Higgins, I think we’re done for today. I’ll… recommend you for further evaluation.

PATIENT: Great! Just make sure it’s not on a Wednesday. That’s when I herd sheep across the Atlantic. They’re very punctual.

DOCTOR: [Nods, standing up and gesturing toward the door] Of course. Wouldn’t want to disrupt the schedule. Good luck with the sheep.

PATIENT: Thanks, Doctor! Oh, and one last thing—do you know where I can get a license to operate a hot air balloon made entirely of mashed potatoes?

DOCTOR: [Baffled] …No, but I’ll look into it.

PATIENT: Much appreciated! Have a good one! Remember, if you ever meet a walrus with a monocle, don’t trust him—he has a wonderful way with words, but next thing you know, you’re swimming round in circles like a north sea mackerel!

DOCTOR: [Staring after him as he leaves, bewildered] Noted.

Scratch Pad

Greg:

“So… how was your weekend?”

Emma:

“Pretty boring, to be honest. Stayed in. Did nothing. You?”

Greg:

“Oh, I just sat in my bathroom, pretending I didn’t exist.”

Emma:

“You pretended not to exist? That’s cute. I spent my weekend actually forgetting I was alive. Just sat there, motionless, like an unused lamp.”

Greg:

“Well, I guess we both had uneventful weekends.”

…..

Greg:

“Okay. First question: If you were a kitchen utensil, which one would you be, and why?”

James:

“Uh… a kitchen utensil?”

Greg: (nodding intensely)

“Yes, a kitchen utensil. You know, spoon, whisk, potato masher… it really says a lot about a person.”

James:

“Um, I suppose… I’d be a… spatula? Because I’m adaptable, I can flip between tasks easily, and, uh… I’m useful in most situations.”

Greg: (scribbling notes with an intense focus)

“Interesting, interesting… spatula. I see. Not a whisk? Are you sure?”

James:

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

Greg:

“Okay, okay, we can work with spatula. Next question: How would you handle a situation where you’re in a meeting with a toaster and it suddenly bursts into flames?”

James:

“Wait, with a toaster? As in… the appliance?”

Greg: (nodding seriously)

“Yes, a toaster. It’s an important scenario for us. Our office has a lot of toasters. And meetings.”

James:

“Well, I suppose I’d… unplug it first? Then maybe use a fire extinguisher if necessary? And, uh, make sure everyone’s safe?”

Greg: (scribbling furiously)

“Good, good. Fire extinguisher. Safety first. But would you also ask the toaster why it burst into flames? It’s important to listen to all team members, including toasters.”

James:

“Uh… sure, I’d ask the toaster for feedback, I guess?”

Greg:

“Exactly! It’s about communication, James. Communication with all kitchen appliances.”

Greg:

“Okay, next one’s a bit of a behavioural test. Imagine you’ve been turned into a duck for the day. You’ve still got a 9 AM team meeting—how do you participate effectively?”

James:

“A… duck?”

Greg: (nodding earnestly)

“Yes. A duck. We’ve all been there. What’s your approach?”

James:

“Well, I suppose I’d still try to contribute, maybe… I don’t know, quack in a way that communicates my ideas?

Greg:

“Great! That’s what we like to hear—adaptability. We’re all about flexibility here, and that applies even when you’re a waterfowl.”

Greg:

“Now, this one is a classic. You’re stranded on a desert island with the CEO of the company. You have one coconut, a Swiss Army knife, and a stack of quarterly reports. What’s your first move?”

James:

“A desert island? With the CEO?”

Greg:

“Yes. It’s a common scenario in the business world. Happens more often than you’d think.”

James:

“Right… I guess I’d, uh, share the coconut with the CEO? And… maybe use the Swiss Army knife to open it? As for the quarterly reports… I don’t think they’d be very useful on an island, so I’d probably ignore those for now?”

Greg: (looking slightly disappointed)

“Ignore the reports? Hmm… that’s a bold choice. Remember, the CEO loves quarterly reports. But, sharing the coconut—good teamwork.”

(Greg scribbles a note).

Greg:

“Okay, James. Final question. It’s the most important one.”

Greg:

“If you could only communicate through interpretive dance for the rest of your life, how would you handle an angry client?”

James

“Interpretive dance?”

Greg: (nodding, deadly serious)

“Yes. It’s a vital skill in today’s business world.”

James:

“I guess I’d… express their frustration with dramatic arm movements? Maybe… throw in some stomping to show how serious I am?”

Greg:

“Perfect. That’s exactly what we’re looking for.”