Scene setting. Slightly parched rose petals being wafted in a tepid breeze. Children sing Ring-a-Ring-o'-Roses with a creepily off-key harmony. A lone sheep bleats plaintively on a distant hillside. Patrick Stewart reclines in a patch of purple heather, playing 'The Skye Boat Song' on a battered tin-whistle.
The books didn't come. The 'phone-call was not returned. VERY LITTLE is as it should be. And I'm waiting, honestly I am. I'm waiting as hard as I can. What more can I do? I cannot engage in warfare on the printers lest the books succumb to the ensuing rampant fires. I can't 'phone the printers because I'm scared of the telephone. Well, moreso because they don't really answer. I can only wait. I fear I may have to wait through lunch, because the office is currently manned by myself and myself alone.
Send sandwiches to the postal address on the website. Except they won't come in time. Can you send sandwiches by telegram?
Sam.
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