News from the Deep

"The job's killing me," says Francis. His words contrast oddly with his pink, healthy complexion and the cheerful way he speaks them as he cracks open another can of beer.

He shakes his head sadly at the enormous spreadsheet on the screen in front of him, so big that nobody alive has viewed it in its entirety.

Stabbing the tab right button, he sets off on his nightly exercise programme which, as far as I can tell, involves seeing if he can reach the far end before falling asleep.

"What are those figures supposed to tell you?" I ask.

"Nobody knows," he says. "Even the forecasting guru they commissioned it from has forgotten what it's about. But if I can decipher it, I get to judge the Miss Mermaid contest."

"Tell me you've just made that up."

"Yes," he says. "Because I'm a judge anyway."

"Miss Mermaid?"

"Yes? So? It's all linked to Omega 3."

"In which case, why not Miss Fish Head? I could come up with several contenders, starting with Sasha."

"I'll suggest it for next year," says Francis, deadpan. "Meanwhile, I'm a judge because we're the biggest sponsors. Honestly, it's a nightmare."

"Let me get this right," I say, "You have to judge a bunch of gorgeous, pouting, nubile women?"

"Yup."

"So, apart from being gorgeous and pouting, what are you judging them on? Their tails?"

"That, and their innner beauty."

"How do you do that? Analyse them for edible oil content?"

"No. I just get to ogle them from a table under the stage."

"I want to come with you," I say.

"OK," he says. "But are you sure you'll be able to walk in the tail outfit without falling over? And you would be ....well, a left field contender for the title."

"Don't be daft," I say. "I'm nominating myself as ogling monitor."

"I'll think about it," he says. "I do hope you're not jealous."

"Jealous? Of a bunch of luscious beauties all trying to get your attention and prepared to do almost anything to gain the title? What makes you think I'd be jealous?"

"That's all right then," says Francis, and carries on with his tabbing.

I go out and turn on my own computer, taking limited consolation from Megadik's latest e-mail assuring me that, "Evenings alone are a thing of the past with your brand new dick," - while being unspecific as just what sort of new brand new friends a middle aged female music teacher with an extra appendage might acquire. Perhaps I should ask the mermaids for tips.