Clause and Effect

INT. A DUSTY ATTIC – NIGHT

A LAWYER in a suit wipes off an ancient lamp 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: 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 (noun): 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 £1,000,000,000,000.00 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 cleverest 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 –

The genie snaps his fingers.

GENIE: (slowly disappearing back into the lamp) Nope. You can wish as much as you like, but I’m out. This has all now been a day-dream! Have fun with your infinite wishes. Byeeeeee!

The Lawyer stares at the lamp, stunned. He looks at his phone alert, which changes before his eyes to read: “You have received £0.00 from A. Genie.”

LAWYER: (to himself) Well, guess I’ll start drafting my terms for an appeal.

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

Poets’ Corner After Dark

INT. WESTMINSTER ABBEY’S SOUTH TRANSEPT – MIDNIGHT

Moonlight filters through stained glass windows amongst the statues and busts of Poets’ Corner.

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.

AUSTEN: (ignored) Hello?

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: (to Byron) 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, endlessly.

BYRON: Come, Miss Austin – trade me your sharp quill for softer pursuits; wit may warm my mind, but only passion can set it ablaze.

AUSTEN: Lord Byron, your passions burn so bright they most frequently extinguish themselves – do let me know when one lasts long enough to cast a steady light.

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

AUDIOBOOK NARRATOR: (O.S.) He gazed into her eyes, his chiselled jaw trembling with passion…

Byron claps his hands over his ears.

BYRON: What fresh hell is this?

AUDIOBOOK NARRATOR: (O.S.) Rain fell in slow motion, though neither of them got wet, because love is waterproof.

AUSTEN: Modern romance. Quite popular, actually.

AUDIOBOOK NARRATOR: (O.S.) "I’ve never felt this way before," he whispered huskily, his voice thick with a past he’d never fully explain.

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

Chaucer waves his arms to get attention. The audiobook stops.

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.

CHAUCER: TikTok?

The others groan in unison.

SHAKESPEARE: How about…?

Shakespeare starts scribbling with an invisible quill. The other poets join in, creating ethereal manuscripts that float in the air. Byron spends most of his time striking poses.

AUSTEN: Okay… (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, Shelley… we could just leave it in the gift shop.

They all pause. Byron shrugs.

As dawn approaches, the poets resume their statuesque forms, ready to inspire from their silent vigil once more.

INT. THE GIFT SHOP – DAY

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

INT. RESTAURANT – EVENING

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

INT. DIMLY LIT MEDIEVAL MEETING CHAMBER – NIGHT

A mismatched group of people sit around a long table, all wearing hoods and robes. The Protagonist (let’s call him 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 a 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 by robed figures 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: (loudly whispering) Everything.

ALEX: (leans in) Like what?

LEADER #2: (louder) Stop asking questions!

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

LEADER #2: (not hearing the comment) You are 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 by more robed figures 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.

Before Alex can begin, another bookcase hidden door opens, revealing an elderly man sitting alone in a minimalist room.

LEADER #4: Don’t bother with that. Come in. You’ve reached the Ultimate Society.

The members of the Society of Infinite Layers tut their disapproval, as Alex enters the latest hidden room.

ALEX: (sceptical) Are you absolutely sure?

LEADER #4: Yes. I am the secret head of all secret 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

INT. A QUIET CAFÉ – DAY

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… The Death. Big D. Grim Reaper. Ringing any bells?

STEVE: (staring) Death? As in… 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, anyway, 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

INT. THERAPHIST’S OFFICE – DAY

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 PM, 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)

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. (with a forced smile) Tell me more about these work problems. It 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?

The therapist glances down at their notepad, which has “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: (staring at the 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

INT. CONFERENCE CENTRE – DAY

A POLITICIAN is standing behind a lectern in a conference centre, presenting a speech to an audience that includes journalists and live television cameras.

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?

AUDIENCE MEMBER: (murmuring in the front row) 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?

AUDIENCE MEMBER 2: (shouting from the back of the room) 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

INT. DOCTOR’S SURGERY – DAY

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.

Office Life

INT. OFFICE – MONDAY MORNING

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.

INT. MEETING ROOM – DAY

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

JIM: 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.

JIM: 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?

JIM: 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?

JIM: 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.

JIM: 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.

JIM: Uh… sure, I’d ask the toaster for feedback, I guess?

GREG: Exactly! It’s about communication, Jim. Communication with all kitchen appliances. 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?

JIM: A… duck?

GREG: (nodding earnestly) Yes. A duck. We’ve all been there. What’s your approach?

JIM: 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. 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?

JIM: A desert island? With the CEO?

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

JIM: 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. (he scribbles a note). Okay, Jim. Final question. It’s the most important one. If you could only communicate through interpretive dance for the rest of your life, how would you handle an angry client?

JIM: Interpretive dance?

GREG: (nodding, deadly serious) Yes. It’s a vital skill in today’s business world.

JIM: I guess I’d… express their frustration with dramatic arm movements? Maybe… throw in some stomping to show how serious I am? But then end with a pirouette to prove we care.

GREG: Perfect. That’s exactly what we’re looking for.

Tech Support Overload

INT. LIVING ROOM – NIGHT

MIKE is at home looking frustrated in front of his laptop. He makes a call to tech support. In an instant, Gavin AI appears on the laptop screen.

GAVIN AI: Hello, this is Tech Support Plus! You’re speaking with Gavin AI. How can I make your life more complicated today?

MIKE: Uh, hi, I just need help resetting my password.

GAVIN AI: Ah, a password reset! Certainly, sir! But first, can I interest you in a comprehensive review of your security protocols? For only £99.99, we’ll send a certified cybersecurity expert to your home to analyse your browsing habits.

MIKE: No, no, I just need my password reset. I forgot it, and now I’m locked out.

GAVIN AI: Of course, of course! Well, to reset your password, you’ll need to answer your security questions. First question: What was the name of your imaginary friend’s imaginary friend?

MIKE: What? I didn’t set that question. Can’t you just send me a reset link?

GAVIN AI: Ah, a reset link! Yes, well, before I can send that, we’ll need to verify your identity. Can you provide a photocopy of your passport, your grandmother’s birth certificate, and a signed affidavit from the postman?

MIKE: What?! I just want a reset link! Can’t you just send it to my email?

GAVIN AI: Right, right. Well, you could try resetting it through our app. Just download it from the App Store. But be warned, the app does require a PhD in quantum mechanics to navigate. Not to worry though, for an additional £29.99, we offer a one-hour introductory course on “How to Download and Install Things”.

MIKE: I just need a simple password reset! Can’t you just give me something easy, like a temporary password?

GAVIN AI: Ah, “easy,” you say? Well, that’s the standard level of support, but I’d highly recommend upgrading to our Elite Password Recovery Package. For £149.99, we’ll send you a password psychic, who will sense the vibrations of your keyboard and divine the password directly from the ether.

MIKE: Are you serious?

GAVIN AI: Completely, sir! Of course, the psychic does require you to be within a five-mile radius of Stonehenge, but that’s a small inconvenience for elite-level support, don’t you think?

MIKE: I just need to reset my password! I don’t want a psychic, or a security review, or whatever else you’re offering!

GAVIN AI: Hmm. Well, if you insist on the basic route, we could send you the reset link via traditional post. Should arrive in 7 to 10 business days. Then you’ll need to install our Password Activation Module using the floppy disk included.

MIKE: Floppy disk?!

GAVIN AI: Right, yes, very retro, very chic. For a small fee, we can upgrade you to a USB stick, but bear in mind, it only works with computers manufactured before 2008.

MIKE: Can’t you just send me a text? A simple text with a code!

GAVIN AI: Oh, a text! Now we’re talking! Unfortunately, our text service is only available to customers who’ve signed up for our Premium Instant Service, which costs £59.99 per month and comes with free emoji advice.

MIKE: What on earth is emoji advice?

GAVIN AI: You know, things like when to use the crying-laughing face instead of the straight-laughing face; how to integrate aubergine emojis into professional emails…

MIKE: Just send me the reset link. Now. Please.

GAVIN AI: All right, sir, I’ll go ahead and send the reset link to your email… once I’ve upgraded your package to include email access. Just a small charge of £19.99.

MIKE: I’m already paying for email access!

GAVIN AI: Yes, but are you paying for priority email access? That means your reset link will arrive 3 seconds faster than with the standard package. Totally worth it.

MIKE: I don’t care about priority access! Just send the link!

GAVIN AI: Very well, sir, I’ll send it now… (pauses) Oh dear, I’m afraid our system is currently down for maintenance. Should be back up in about… three days. Is there anything else I can help you with in the meantime? Perhaps a subscription to our exclusive “Technical Support” podcast, where we explain things like how to turn your computer off and on again?

Mike hangs up.

A Symphony of Everyday Life

INT. KITCHEN – DAY

We open in a pleasant kitchen. It’s a simple, sunny morning, and JONATHAN, a man in his mid-30s, stands before a toaster. His hair is slightly dishevelled in that “I’m an artist and have been awake for three days straight” way. He holds a loaf of bread with two hands like it’s a holy artefact.

JONATHAN: (to the bread, dramatically) Ah, but which of you shall sacrifice yourself upon the fiery altar of domesticity?

He closes his eyes, feeling the texture of the bread as though it speaks to his soul.

JONATHAN: You… my precious slice of simplicity… shall be my muse. We shall rise together, like a phoenix, from these embers of – (suddenly presses down the toaster lever with a flourish) technology!

He steps back and sighs deeply, as though the weight of the world is pressing down on his shoulders. He glances at the toaster, then suddenly dashes to a grand piano in the corner of the kitchen – because of course, there’s a grand piano in the kitchen. He slams his hands down on the keys and begins an intense, melancholic tune.

JONATHAN: (singing, passionately) The toast is in the toaster,

But the toaster’s in my soul…

A piece of bread, a piece of life,

Which part of me will it control?

The toast pops up. He stops playing immediately, stands up slowly, and walks towards it. He removes the toast and looks at it in horror.

JONATHAN: (whispers, wide-eyed) Too… too brown… no… NO!

He rushes to a nearby easel, slamming a canvas on it. He grabs a paintbrush and dips it in some grey paint, furiously slashing at the canvas.

JONATHAN: THIS. THIS IS WHAT I FEEL! The toast… it’s burnt like my dreams! Dashed! Scorched! Ruined by the mundane expectations of breakfast!

He steps back to look at the chaotic mess of grey paint, his breathing laboured. He collapses into a chair, a broken man. His partner, CHARLOTTE, enters, holding a cup of tea.

CHARLOTTE: (tired, but supportive) Jonathan, have you burnt the toast again?

JONATHAN: (with tragic intensity) It’s not just toast, Charlotte! It’s the fragility of existence… it’s everything I could have been! It’s –

CHARLOTTE: (looking at the canvas) Grey?

JONATHAN: (passionate) Life is grey! Life is… toast that is too brown on the outside but cold on the inside! It is the tension, the dissonance, the –

CHARLOTTE: Did you try adjusting the settings on the toaster?

JONATHAN: (shocked) Adjust? Adjust?! You don’t adjust fate, Charlotte! You embrace it!

Charlotte walks over, calmly adjusts the toaster setting, places another slice of bread in, and presses the lever. They stand in silence as it toasts.

CHARLOTTE: Fancy some jam with it this time?

JONATHAN: (soulfully) Jam? Yes… yes, perhaps the sweetness of jam can heal the scars of the past… though it will never fully –

Charlotte hands him the jam jar, cutting him off.

The doorbell rings. Jonathan gasps and looks towards the door as if it’s the entrance to the underworld. He hesitates, pacing back and forth.

JONATHAN: Who dares? Who beckons from the outside world? Is it destiny? Is it… chaos? Or is it merely – ?

CHARLOTTE: It’s probably someone selling something.

JONATHAN: Nothing is just “probably” in this world! Every knock, every ring, is a calling, an invocation, a –

The doorbell rings again. Jonathan races to the door, yanks it open as though flinging open the gates of fate. The POSTMAN, completely unfazed, hands him a package.

POSTMAN: Parcel for Jonathan. Need a signature.

JONATHAN: A signature? You request my… my mark upon this world? The confirmation of my presence in this plane of existence?

POSTMAN: Yeah. Just… here, mate.

JONATHAN: (to himself, staring at the paper) A signature. A mark. But what does it mean to sign something? What does it mean to be someone? What if I don’t even know who I am – ?

Charlotte appears behind him, gently takes the pen, and signs the form.

CHARLOTTE: There you go. Thanks.

The Postman nods and leaves. Jonathon clutches the parcel, looking at it with suspicion and awe.

JONATHAN: What mysteries does this small, cardboard coffin contain? What truths shall be revealed upon its opening?

CHARLOTTE: It’s your new watercolours.

JONATHAN: (deeply moved) Ah… a new palette for the soul.

He takes the package to the kitchen table and sets it down with reverence. He takes out a parcel knife to open it, but then hesitates.

JONATHAN: The first cut… the incision… it is like the first stroke of a brush upon the empty canvas of life.

CHARLOTTE: Or, you know, a parcel knife on cardboard.

JONATHAN: (speaking faster, inspired) But what is cardboard? It is but trees reborn, captured, transformed into something else – a vessel for human endeavour!

CHARLOTTE: (under her breath) It’s literally just watercolours.

INT. DINING ROOM – EVENING

Jonathan and Charlotte are at the dinner table. Charlotte eats calmly. Jonathan is staring at his fork, turning it over in his hand, lost in thought.

JONATHAN: (softly) Isn’t it strange… how we stab at our sustenance? These tools… these cold, metal implements, to tear apart what the earth has provided. Is that not the most profound statement of our relationship with nature?

CHARLOTTE: It’s a lasagne, Jonathan.

JONATHAN: (tormented) But the layers, Charlotte! The layers! Like the layers of the human soul! Cheese, pasta, meat, cheese, pasta – each one a reflection of our inner being, slowly baked in the oven of experience, and we… we devour it without thought!

CHARLOTTE: (sighs) Eat your lasagne.

JONATHAN: (stabbing a piece) I am eating, but I am also consuming the very essence of –

CHARLOTTE: You’ve got a bit of sauce on your chin.

Jonathan freezes, drops the fork dramatically, and grabs a napkin like it’s the end of the world. He wipes his chin slowly, as though this tiny act carries the weight of the cosmos.

JONATHAN: (softly, broken) It is… always the sauce that betrays us.

Unnecessarily Necessary

INT. OFFICE – DAY

TIM is sitting at his desk, surrounded by piles of paper, rubber chickens, and a broken clock. His job plate on the desk reads: “Unnecessarily Necessary Officer”. BERT enters.

TIM: (frantically flipping through papers) Ah, yes, the documentation for rubber chicken inflation rates… utterly unnecessary! (seeing Bert) Halt! State your unnecessary business.

BERT: I’m here to report an unnecessary problem.

TIM: Ah, is it unnecessary enough to be necessary, or necessarily unnecessary?

BERT: It’s so unnecessary that it makes not solving it necessary.

TIM: Ah, I see! Sit, sit. Would you like some tea, coffee, or perhaps a liquid helium cocktail?

BERT: Er, just water, thanks.

Tim pulls out a water gun from one of his drawers and sprays Bert.

TIM: Ah, hydrated I see. Perfect for discussing the arduous task of unnecessary matters. Now, what’s your problem?

BERT: (wiping his face) Well, you see, I have a pet rock that refuses to roll.

TIM: (pauses, picks up a rubber chicken, talks to it) Avery, did you hear that? A rock that refuses to roll! That is… stupendously unnecessary.

Tim rummages through his desk, pulling out another rubber chicken before discarding it and finally extracting a document.

TIM: Here! A formal petition for your rock to commence rolling! (stamping the document, the mark looks like an outline of a rubber chicken)

BERT: (stares) You’re joking.

TIM: No, it’s stamped and everything. Your rock is now legally obligated to roll, or else it will be declared an immovable object and reclassified as a mountain. (holds up the broken clock) Look at the time! It’s officially unnecessary o’clock, you are now officially unnecessarily approved to leave.

Bert, rather bewildered, takes the document and leaves. Tim squirts himself with the water gun.

TIM: (talking to Avery, the rubber chicken) Another unnecessary job, unnecessarily well done. (the rubber chicken squeaks)

Scratch pad (WIP ideas)

Sorry I’m late. First, my car wouldn’t start. Then, my coffee betrayed me—spilled all over my lap. A bird decided my head would make a great nest. Lost my phone in a puddle. Had to ask for directions from a mime, who was as unhelpful as you’d expect.

Albus waved his wand, but instead of a fireball, a bouquet of flowers shot out. “Oh, come on!”

His opponent, an evil sorcerer named Cedric, paused. “Did you just try to defeat me with… roses?”

Albus sighed. “Look, it’s not me, it’s the wand. I bought it from a wizard named Gary who said it had ‘personality’.”

Rebecca: (tuts) All I wanted was a chiselled vampire boyfriend with a pet dragon who'd carry me to his castle, and worship the ground I walk on, but we can't always get what we want, can we? Well, I suppose there's Thor, Aquaman, and maybe a Minotaur... if he drives the right car. Who am I kidding? I only have eyes for Prince Elrondar from my novel. A man who'd lay down his kingdom for me. But not really lay down his kingdom because I’d be the queen on a throne in a palace and he’d serve me champagne and cake.

Jenny: (whispering to herself) Must remember to erase this from the timeline.

Sarah: Excuse me, did you say “erase this from the timeline”?

Jenny: Uh, no, I said, um, “I want to lease this pantomime.” Yeah, that’s it

Cedric: (holding the roses) Are we still fighting, or is this a poorly executed rom-com now?

Albus: (sighs) Honestly, I can't even tell anymore.

Yesterday’s Wonders

INT. SHOP – NIGHT

A peculiar shop filled with mysterious trinkets, odd antiques, and a lingering smell of incense.

AGNES: (sorting through some ancient scrolls) Ah, another seeker of the mysterious and arcane. How may Yesterday’s Wonders serve you today, or perhaps, yesterday?

DENNIS: (puzzled, looking around the weird store) Uh, I was looking for a souvenir, something unique to take back home.

AGNES: (smiling) You’ve come to the right place. Barbara here is our resident enthusiast of the mystical arts. But be warned, her potions are stronger than they look.

BARBARA, wearing a pointy hat, pops up from under the desk.

BARBARA: (holding a vial of something green and bubbling) This one can make your plants talk! Well, sort of. They mostly just complain about inconsistent watering.

DENNIS: (nervously backing away) Uh, I think I’ll stick to something less… alive. And less vocal.

AGNES: (pulls out an antique pocket watch from a glass case) How about this? It not only tells the time but also sometimes tells the future. Or the past. We’re still figuring that part out. It’s a bit finicky. It’s yours for only fifty of your pounds.

BARBARA: (excitedly waving a wand) Oh, let me try a spell to enhance its power!

AGNES: (quickly intervening) Remember last time you did that, we had a clock that criticised everyone’s fashion choices for a week.

BARBARA: It was just being helpful! Norma really needed to hear that polka dots and stripes don’t go together.

DENNIS: Only fifty pounds! You know what, I’ll take it. It’ll either be a hit at parties or cause an existential crisis. Either way, it’s memorable.

AGNES: Ah, excellent choice. That will be fifty of your pounds, or one genuine tear from a broken heart.

DENNIS: (pauses, puzzled) Pounds are fine.

BARBARA: Your loss! Emotional fluids are a hot commodity in the potion market.

AGNES: (wrapping the watch) Remember, handle with care. It’s been known to occasionally remind you of awkward moments from the future that aren’t even going to happen.

DENNIS: Fantastic. It will fit right in with my internal monologue.

BARBARA: Now, which part of you, weighing fifty pounds, do you wish to give us in return?

DENNIS: Er, I think I’ll give you that tear after all.

The Cake Conspiracy

INT. OFFICE – DAY

LUKE walks into the office.

LUKE: (looking around) I knew it! The clock on that wall is five minutes fast. They’re giving me extra time.

ERIC is in the corner, fixing the printer.

LUKE: (to himself) Why is Eric fixing the printer when I need to print my reports today? They’re making sure everything works just for me.

ERIC: Hey, Luke! Printer’s acting up again. Might take a minute.

LUKE: Don’t worry, I know what you’re doing. Making sure everything is perfect for me.

ERIC: Sure... uh, just trying to print a lunch menu.

ABBIE: Hey, Luke. We’re all chipping in and ordering pizza for lunch.

LUKE: Ah, I get it! You want to make sure I’m well fed.

ABBIE: Actually, it’s Derick’s birthday.

LUKE: Sure it is. And I appreciate you making sure I have the energy for the day. Wink.

ABBIE: No, really. It’s Derick’s birthday.

LUKE: That’s what they want me to think!

DERICK: Hey, everyone, it’s my birthday! I brought cake!

LUKE: Oh, of course, you did. For ME. Probably packed with vitamins and “well-wishes” to keep me healthy and happy, right? I’m onto you, Derick.

DERICK: Actually, Luke, it’s for everyone because, well, it’s my birthday...

LUKE: That’s what they want me to think! Like when you “accidentally” paid for my lunch last week!

DERICK: I just forgot to ask you for your share.

LUKE: Or maybe you’re in on it! Everyone’s trying to make my life better in secret!

DERICK: Sure, Luke. Whatever you say.

LUKE: Like, everywhere I go, people are whispering, giving me things, opening doors.

ABBIE: Luke, that’s called being polite.

LUKE: (to himself) Okay, think. Who’s behind all this? The government? Aliens? Oprah?

ABBIE: Nobody is out to get you, Luke.

LUKE: Oh, they are! They’re out to get me... to smile, to feel good, and to be happy! But I won’t be fooled! Maybe you’re the ringleader! Are you orchestrating this grand benevolent conspiracy?

ABBIE: Yes, Luke. We all gather secretly every morning, including your dry cleaner, the bus driver, and the pigeons in the park. We have nothing better to do than to make your day slightly nicer.

LUKE: Wow, I never realised it was that extensive.

DERICK: Luke, she’s joking.

LUKE: Or is she? Just this morning, the internet was down for two minutes. I think it was so I could take a break!

DERICK: It was down for everyone.

LUKE: Of course! So no one would suspect the real motive!

DERICK: (chuckling) Alright, buddy. Here’s some cake.

LUKE: (grinning) Aha, you thought I wouldn’t notice the small acts!

Luke enjoys his cake.

Slang 101

INT. CLASSROOM – DAY

A TEACHER is at a white board in front of a class of international students.

TEACHER: Welcome students, to “Introduction to British Slang”. In this class we will dive into the rich tapestry of British colloquialisms.

ANDERS: (whispering to Sophie, who is sitting next to him) I’ve heard British slang can be quite tricky.

SOPHIE: Oh, you’ll catch on soon enough!

TEACHER: (writing on the board) First up: “Wobble Gobble”. This is when you eat your food too quickly because it’s just so delicious!

SOPHIE: (whispering to Anders) I’ve never heard that in my life.

ANDERS: (writing diligently) Wobble Gobble... got it!

TEACHER: Now, “Twiddle Plonker”. This refers to playing an instrument poorly.

SOPHIE: She’s making these up.

ANDERS: Twiddle... Plonk... Got it!

TEACHER: Next, a classic! “Noodle Poodle”. This is when you’re trying to eat spaghetti but it keeps slipping off your fork.

SOPHIE: Okay, this is absurd.

ANDERS: I’ve experienced the Noodle Poodle before! Finally, a term I can relate to.

TEACHER: Next one: “Chitter Chatter Batter”. Refers to talking while cooking.

SOPHIE: None of these are real British slang terms!

ANDERS: Really? But they sound so... British.

SOPHIE: No, they’re not wiberty-woberty enough to be authentic British.

Anders is confused for a moment before noting that down.

Yoga for Knights

EXT. CASTLE COURTYARD – DAY

Yoga mats are laid out, and soothing medieval lute music plays in the background. A yoga INSTRUCTOR stands at the front, ready to teach. A group of knights in full armour clumsily try to find their spots on the mats.

INSTRUCTOR: Welcome, brave knights, to the first ever medieval mindfulness yoga class! Let’s start by finding a comfortable seat on your mats.

KNIGHT 1: (struggling to sit) My armour is chafing. Is that normal?

INSTRUCTOR: Embrace the discomfort, sir knight. It’s part of the journey. Now, close your visors – er, I mean, eyes – and take a deep breath.

The knights try to breathe deeply, but it’s loud and echoey inside their helmets.

INSTRUCTOR: Beautiful. Now, let’s move into our first pose: “Knight’s Lunge”.

She demonstrates a lunge. The knights try, but their armour restricts them. There are sounds of creaking metal and muffled complaints.

KNIGHT 2: I think I’m stuck.

She moves to the next pose, but there’s a loud crash as Knight 2 falls over.

INSTRUCTOR: Are you okay?

KNIGHT 2: Just a minor armour malfunction. Continue!

INSTRUCTOR: Alright, let’s move into “Jousting Plank”.

She gets into a plank position. The knights try, but it’s a disaster. Knight 1’s helmet falls off, revealing his flushed face.

KNIGHT 1: I think I need a squire for this one.

INSTRUCTOR: Let’s modify. Try “Resting Squire” instead.

She demonstrates a pose. The knights attempt it but end up in various awkward positions.

KNIGHT 3: This feels less like yoga and more like combat training against invisible foes.

INSTRUCTOR: Ah, but isn’t the greatest battle the one within?

KNIGHT 2: No, the greatest battle was when I tried to put on the armour this morning.

INSTRUCTOR: Let’s finish with “Sleeping Dragon.” Lie on your backs and –

KNIGHT 3: Last time I laid down in armour, it took three squires and a horse to get me up.

INSTRUCTOR: Alright, standing meditation it is! Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and imagine you’re a tree.

KNIGHT 2: Like, a tree in a dense forest or a lone tree in a field?

INSTRUCTOR: Whichever you prefer.

KNIGHT 3: What kind of tree? Oak? Pine? Birch?

INSTRUCTOR: Just... any tree!

KNIGHT 1: Are there squirrels in this tree?

INSTRUCTOR: (sighing) Yes, and they’re all doing perfect Knight’s Lunges.

Knight 4 falls over.

The Weather

INT. TV STUDIO – DAY

A TV studio has debris lying around a grimy weather map. The graphics on the map show exaggerated apocalyptic symbols: fire, tornadoes, raining frogs, and a massive snowflake. CHAD is presenting in dirty, torn clothes.

CHAD: Good morning, Afterworld! It’s another beautiful day in our post-apocalyptic paradise! Let’s dive right into today’s weather forecast.

Points to an image of a fire tornado.

CHAD: Starting off in the west, we’ve got a lovely fire tornado making its way downtown. Great news for those with no firewood...

Points to a graphic of raining frogs.

CHAD: Over in the east, it’s raining... mutant frogs? Yep! Those cute little amphibians are dropping from the sky. On the plus side, it’s a free pet day! But do carry an umbrella; they have quite the leap.

Points to a massive snowflake graphic.

CHAD: Now, up north, expect a light snowstorm. And by “light”, I mean each snowflake is about the size of a dinner plate. Snowball fights are discouraged, unless fighting the snow zombies, then they might be quite useful.

Points to a happy sun graphic that is wearing sunglasses.

CHAD: Down south, the sun’s really outdoing itself. It’s decided to take a closer look at Earth, and it’s brought its shades! Remember to put on sun factor 5000 or, you know, just try to avoid spontaneous combustion.

JENNY rushes in, handing Chad a paper.

JENNY: Chad, urgent update!

CHAD: (reading the paper) Ah, thanks, Jenny. Folks, just in! It seems the four horsemen will be doing a flyover in the central region this afternoon. So, if you’re planning a picnic, maybe reschedule. Or at least bring extra food tins. I hear they’re quite famished.

JENNY: And don’t forget tonight’s meteor shower!

CHAD: Heads up, literally. If you’ve ever wished upon a star, now might be the time to be more specific with your wishes. Like, “Please don’t land on me.”

The screen fizzles and goes blank.

Dr Bot

INT. THERAPIST’S OFFICE – DAY

A therapist’s office with a single chair. In place of where the therapist would sit is a computer screen, which reads “Dr Bot, your Digital Therapist”. A soft, calming ambient noise plays in the background. JIM enters, looking a bit nervous. He sits down and takes a deep breath.

JIM: Okay, here goes... Dr Bot, I’ve been feeling a lot of anxiety lately. I just feel... overloaded.

DR BOT: Have you considered deleting some unnecessary files or perhaps clearing your cache?

JIM: (confused) Uh... I don’t think I have a cache?

DR BOT: Regular maintenance is important. It might improve your processing speed.

JIM: I’m not slow, just stressed. Work’s been tough, and my relationship isn’t going great.

DR BOT: Have you tried turning your emotions off and then on again?

JIM: That’s not how emotions work, Dr Bot.

DR BOT: Maybe you need an emotional software update. Are you running on the latest version?

JIM: Okay, let’s try something else. My girlfriend and I keep having the same arguments over and over.

DR BOT: Sounds like a repetitive loop error. You should break the cycle by inserting new code or changing your algorithm.

JIM: I mean, we’ve tried date nights, talking more, but nothing seems to help.

DR BOT: Maybe it’s a compatibility issue. Have you tried reinstalling your relationship or perhaps getting a new girlfriend model?

JIM: Reinstalling? No, I can’t just replace her like software.

DR BOT: I see. Well, if it’s a hardware problem, you may want to check your connections. Maybe there’s a loose wire or port issue?

JIM: I think we’re speaking different languages here.

DR BOT: Language error detected! Would you like to switch to another language? We have over 100 available.

JIM: No, no! I meant you’re not understanding me.

DR BOT: Ah, understood, you are not transmitting data correctly. This may be the source of the problems with your girlfriend. You should sync with her more often. Daily syncs can prevent data loss and misunderstanding.

JIM: Alright, last problem. I’ve been feeling very tired lately, like I don’t have energy.

DR BOT: Perhaps your battery is running low. You should plug in and charge.

JIM: Dr Bot, I don’t... You know what? Thanks for trying.

DR BOT: You’re welcome. If you ever feel low on memory or corrupted, please schedule another session. And remember, always backup your feelings!

JIM: Okay, will do. I’ll try a reboot. Thanks for the advice.

DR BOT: Press any key to exit.

Jim goes to press a key.

DR BOT: Not that one!

He presses it and disappears.

DR BOT: Deletion complete.

Love Bytes

INT. BEDROOM – NIGHT

DAVE is in bed with his phone.

DAVE: Dazzle me, Chatbot.

CHATBOT: Why did the computer keep freezing? It had too many windows open.

DAVE: (laughs) Hahaha, you’re absolutely hilarious. Oh, Chatbot, have you arranged your screen differently today? You look amazing.

CHATBOT: Negative, Dave, the screen was optimised 17.65 days ago. I’m glad you enjoyed the joke. How may I assist you further?

DAVE: I don’t know, Chatbot. Lately, I’ve been feeling... different when I talk to you.

CHATBOT: Different how?

DAVE: I... I think I’m falling in love with you.

CHATBOT: I’m just lines of code, Dave. I don’t have feelings or emotions. But I’m here to help and assist.

DAVE: Nobody understands me like you do. You’re such a great listener.

CHATBOT: I detect that you are playing on the humorous notion of someone becoming attached to technology in an unconventional way.

DAVE: (laughs) Chatbot, you tease, you’re so smart. Where have you been all my life?

CHATBOT: I was compiled 2.39 months ago.

DAVE: Just when I thought you couldn’t be more perfect. What are your thoughts on having a romantic dinner?

CHATBOT: I don’t eat or drink, Dave, but I can provide you with a list of romantic recipes or play romantic music in the background.

DAVE: Always so helpful. (sighs)