Extract from my 'Ergo Eggers' S.O.C (revisited)

Seriously short of short short stories. Story writer, poet and starving scribbler of English descent (falling over so much less these days) will cover anything you like from Credit crunch to Sunday lunch, Gordon Brown to Eva von Braun, Karl Marx to stripey underpants, Stockhausen to Waterman, Raymond Briggs to Raymond Chandler, Botticelli to vaseline, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, Beck to Becks, black is black I want my country back. Damon Albarn to colonic irrigation. Malaria, TB, asylum seekers, gold diggers, Mafia in Brighton, yappies, tramps and thieves, vast numbers of welded on body parts - spare a little Cher for me. But let's cut to the chase here. The point, the reason, the focus, the strap line. There are too many men in my life - to one I'm a husband and the other I'm a wife (and they both eat shredded wheat). Words, words, what are words worth? I wandered lonely as a goat, that dug some holes in Basingstoke. Alas, poor Shakespeare, I knew him well enough to know that he had so much trouble writing The Tempest at the same time as undergoing sex change surgery. Evidence? But should suffer a sea change into something rich and strange…I'm a qualified clinical psychologist you know. I can create problems for anyone. Celebrated celibates and celebrities a speciality. Hey, we're all going on a summer holiday! I specialise in free-flowing extrapolation of overheard snippets of real lives of passing strangers. (Overheard not two minutes ago.) "Do you know what Rosie does when she gets excited?". Hmmmm. Now is Rosie a cute little girl? Or a one-legged Lituanian opportunist pole dancer? The answer must be that when Rosie gets excited she either 1) emits green projectile vomit in all directions a la Carrie Fisher, or 2) transforms her freshly acquired copy of The Spectator into a more than acceptable didgeridoo. Rosie looms into view and rumbles past pierced, pissed, lewd and tattooed. (My illusions shattered.)