The screen was blank, apart from just four words. They had been there for over a week now, waiting for the accompanying paragraphs that would justify their existence.
The four words were “I Am John’s Knee”.
David had been writing this section for the Readers Digest for five years now. During that time he had been John’s heart, spleen, kidney, lungs and scrotum (he might as well have written just the one article called “I am John‘s sausage”). He hadn’t yet been John’s dandruff, his Betty Boop tattoo or his third little piggy (the one that got roast beef), but those days would surely come soon, John was running out of body parts.
Sometimes David got to be part of Jane, when the Digest wanted to explore areas of the anatomy that John simply didn’t have. You might think that this would put David in touch with his feminine side, but you’d be wrong. After the article where he informed the world that he was Jane’s ovaries he just felt embarrassed for the whole day.
And it’s wasn’t as if he was making a fortune from this. Indeed, readers with names like Mrs J. Spalding, Sussex, were making £250 for merry snippets about their grandchildren for the “Life’s Like That” section. This worked out usually at about two pounds a word, or about five times what David, a supposedly professional writer, was being paid.
The screen in front of him remained blank. It should by now have been filled with information about the patella, the cruciate ligament and even about the fact that de knee-bone connect to de shin-bone, but David just couldn’t be arsed. Couldn’t be John’s arsed, in fact.
The words remained a forlorn foursome on the screen. David went to the kitchen and got himself a bottle of scotch. He then sat on his sofa in front of an episode of Castle and, as he had done every evening that week, poured himself a very large glass.
Oh, I am David’s liver, by the way. I’m screwed.