I hope you are well; it has been some time since we last conversed. I’m sure you correspond with many people in your role as a customer services representative but you may recall that some time ago I had a near-traumatic experience with some garlic bread that was nowhere near as garlicky as I had been led to believe.
Since we last spoke, I have been forced to spend a lot of time with my detestable godchildren, Honoria and Augustus. They are the foul spawn of one of Agatha’s old school friends and I loathe them with the intensity of one thousand suns. They are loud, obnoxious and ill-mannered and frankly when I was their age I wouldn’t have been able to do half the things they get away with without feeling the buckle end of my father’s belt. Spare the rod and spoil the child, say I, and these two young blots on the landscape are nothing but spoiled. Quite frankly I’d like to find quite a large rod – a curtain pole, perhaps – and bring it down over both their reprehensible little skulls.
When Honoria and Augustus are at the Haselhurst-Horton residence, which is far too often as their mother is an idle alchoholic whore, I take a perverse pleasure in exercising my authority as master of the household over them. To date I have issued no fewer than 122 directives, which include the banning of spitting, swearing, sweating, breathing or laughing too loudly, chewing gum, slurping, passing wind, belching, scowling, smiling and getting in the way of our cat, Throgmorton, who has priority seating privileges at all times. As Agatha is bent on constantly indulging the little brats and refuses to deny them anything they want (this is grossly unfair as I, a fully-grown man, am only allowed half a chocolate digestive with my afternoon tea) the role of nutritionist has fallen to me. Loathe as I am to prolong the pint-sized bastards’ lifespan any more than necessary, there is an illicit thrill to be had from forcing vegetative matter down their throats, particularly Augustus, whose corpulence is such that I suspect he may soon be the proud owner of his own gravitational field.
Yesterday I stopped by at the my local Tesco to pick up some new and exciting vegetables with which to torture Augustus and picked up a packet of organic avocados. I very much resent paying £1.97 for a pack of three but unfortunately there weren’t any alternatives. Now, I know that avocados have a notoriously short window of optimal deliciousness, but the first one I cut up was more rotten than Augustus’ back teeth, which have already needed five fillings even though he is only nine. As you can see from the attached photograph, it certainly wasn’t in an edible state even though its best-before was before 5th November.
Honoria, who normally is as capable of as intelligent remarks as a rabid weasel, described the avocado as 'minging', which I believe in this instance means a deplorable disregard for health and safety on the part of Tesco supermarkets. Who knows what this festering piece of vegetation was harbouring?
I would be very appreciative if you would arrange to have a new avocado sent to me immediately.
Yours disgustedly,
Derek Haselhurst-Horton
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