Read Online Inconceivable by Ben Elton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ben Elton
Tags: Humor, Fiction, General, Humorous, Fiction - General, Domestic Fiction, London (England), Married People, Infertility, Fertilization in Vitro; Human
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ask him. A bit of smarmy arselick never hurts. I sent the letters through the BBC franking system. Let the licence payers stump up the cash. I’ve given them the best years of my life.
Dear Pen Pal
I spent yesterday lunchtime at a women’s clinic for alternative medicine and therapy. As I’ve said, all that New Agey stuff is not really for me, but on the other hand it’s foolish to dismiss things out of hand. Anyway, while I was there I bumped into Drusilla. she’d just been to an aromatherapy session and she reeked of orange and liquorice oils. It made me think of the school tuckshop actually. This was unfortunate because of course then I thought of all the girls I knew at school, and then I wondered where they all are now and of course then I thought they’ve all got babies ! Twelve each, no doubt. Which is wonderful, and I’m glad for them, no really I am, but it does also make me feel a bit sad.
Anyway, Drusilla (who seems to be nearly as fascinated by my infertility as I am myself) asked how long we’d lived in Highgate.
‘Five years,’ I said, to which she positively shrieked and said that this was our problem! I told her not to be ridiculous, of course, but asked her to tell me more (you can’t be too careful). Well, apparently it’s well known that there’s an unfriendly and infertile ley line running right through Hampstead and Highgate. I pointed out that other people conceive in Highgate, but apparently ley lines are very personal and can be a fertility drug for some and an absolute vinegar douche for others. Drusilla is convinced that our problem is geographical. She claims that the most powerfully positive ley line within this, our ancient and magical land of Albany, runs right across Primrose Hill! Well, I half guessed what was coming, but it was still a shock. She wants Sam and me to have it off on top of Primrose Hill!
On bloody top! In the open air. At midnight under a full moon, no less.
It’s not on, of course. Absolutely out of the question. Under no circumstances would I dream of doing such a thing. Well, it’s ridiculous. She’ll have us fellating at Stonehenge next.
Incidentally, I nearly shouted at that arrogant sod Carl Phipps today. I was on my own in the office and he came in to pick up some faxes, from an American producer no less, very grand. I must say he was looking rather nice, wearing a maroon-coloured corduroy suit, so I said, ‘Oh you’re looking rather nice, Carl,’ and he said, ‘Well, one tries.’ I mean the arrogance! He might just as well have said, ‘Yes, I am gorgeous, aren’t I?’ Which he is not, incidentally. Anyway, then he sat right down on the corner of my desk and said, ‘You’re looking like something of a sex bitch yourself today, Lucy’ which was simply not true. All I had on was a silly little miniskirt, my kinky boots and that little tight top I quite like. Frankly I looked awful, so it was stupid of him to pretend I didn’t.
Carl is terribly popular with the public. He’s definitely our biggest client. He gets loads of fan mail from that costume thing he did at the Beeb. I can’t think what people see in him.
Dear Book,
G ood news and bad news. Lucy has vetoed my all-round scrotal fitness plan. She says that the test must not be rigged. If we’re to get anywhere with discovering why we’re infertile I must present an honest picture of myself and my life. i.e. half pissed most nights and occasionally at lunchtime. Lucy suspects, I fear, that my fondness for booze (which though sociable is by no means excessive) may be the problem. She imagines that the inside of my scrotum resembles the Groucho Club at 1.45 on a Saturday night, i.e. nearly empty but with a thin smattering of pissed-up free-loading liggers who have no real skills or purpose and appear to make no positive contribution to anything whatsoever that might justify their comfortable and socially exalted existence.
Therefore, despite her low opinion of my fertility, Lucy
Dear Pen Pal
I spent yesterday lunchtime at a women’s clinic for alternative medicine and therapy. As I’ve said, all that New Agey stuff is not really for me, but on the other hand it’s foolish to dismiss things out of hand. Anyway, while I was there I bumped into Drusilla. she’d just been to an aromatherapy session and she reeked of orange and liquorice oils. It made me think of the school tuckshop actually. This was unfortunate because of course then I thought of all the girls I knew at school, and then I wondered where they all are now and of course then I thought they’ve all got babies ! Twelve each, no doubt. Which is wonderful, and I’m glad for them, no really I am, but it does also make me feel a bit sad.
Anyway, Drusilla (who seems to be nearly as fascinated by my infertility as I am myself) asked how long we’d lived in Highgate.
‘Five years,’ I said, to which she positively shrieked and said that this was our problem! I told her not to be ridiculous, of course, but asked her to tell me more (you can’t be too careful). Well, apparently it’s well known that there’s an unfriendly and infertile ley line running right through Hampstead and Highgate. I pointed out that other people conceive in Highgate, but apparently ley lines are very personal and can be a fertility drug for some and an absolute vinegar douche for others. Drusilla is convinced that our problem is geographical. She claims that the most powerfully positive ley line within this, our ancient and magical land of Albany, runs right across Primrose Hill! Well, I half guessed what was coming, but it was still a shock. She wants Sam and me to have it off on top of Primrose Hill!
On bloody top! In the open air. At midnight under a full moon, no less.
It’s not on, of course. Absolutely out of the question. Under no circumstances would I dream of doing such a thing. Well, it’s ridiculous. She’ll have us fellating at Stonehenge next.
Incidentally, I nearly shouted at that arrogant sod Carl Phipps today. I was on my own in the office and he came in to pick up some faxes, from an American producer no less, very grand. I must say he was looking rather nice, wearing a maroon-coloured corduroy suit, so I said, ‘Oh you’re looking rather nice, Carl,’ and he said, ‘Well, one tries.’ I mean the arrogance! He might just as well have said, ‘Yes, I am gorgeous, aren’t I?’ Which he is not, incidentally. Anyway, then he sat right down on the corner of my desk and said, ‘You’re looking like something of a sex bitch yourself today, Lucy’ which was simply not true. All I had on was a silly little miniskirt, my kinky boots and that little tight top I quite like. Frankly I looked awful, so it was stupid of him to pretend I didn’t.
Carl is terribly popular with the public. He’s definitely our biggest client. He gets loads of fan mail from that costume thing he did at the Beeb. I can’t think what people see in him.
Dear Book,
G ood news and bad news. Lucy has vetoed my all-round scrotal fitness plan. She says that the test must not be rigged. If we’re to get anywhere with discovering why we’re infertile I must present an honest picture of myself and my life. i.e. half pissed most nights and occasionally at lunchtime. Lucy suspects, I fear, that my fondness for booze (which though sociable is by no means excessive) may be the problem. She imagines that the inside of my scrotum resembles the Groucho Club at 1.45 on a Saturday night, i.e. nearly empty but with a thin smattering of pissed-up free-loading liggers who have no real skills or purpose and appear to make no positive contribution to anything whatsoever that might justify their comfortable and socially exalted existence.
Therefore, despite her low opinion of my fertility, Lucy
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