"Hello, HMRC? I, Jack Monroe here. Yes, about my accounts - they linger like a septic wound, atrociously oozing with florid prose. You don't cook up your batch tax when you're suicidal. The memories of the brown envelopes piling up like vast swathes of autumn leaves, that have been kicked over Content's Turds are enough to leave me quivering, shaking and rocking all over (the world) behind the door, whilst the postman lifts the letterbox and sniffs the air like a Charlie addicted Bisto kid.
"Cor" he said "I ain't never smelled anyfink so loverlee in my life". "Thankyou" I stammered from my frinkling crouched position on the floor. "It's my new recipe (coming soon) from my new (coming soon) poverty book 'Jack Monroe's Thrifty Book Of Hair Burning Tips' "Put me dahhhhn for 25 copies, for Christmas pressies for all my friends and family" he said. Stutteringly, I faltered "Ping me your email deets and I'll get over to the post office sometime in 2028 to send them".
Anyway, yes, my accounts. When I wrote my first cookbook on my Nokia phone I never imagined I'd have to unscrew all my lightbulbs to do it first. The image of the cold, hard furious fridge as I unplugged it will stay with me forever... That's why I have three of them now, so I can recreate the trauma anytime I walk into my hall to take a facetuned selfie of my Pringle induced lip plumpers gorgeous, yet careworn povvo face for clicks and dopamine. Yes, so the accounts...
The dog ate them. God forbid I should have nice things. You just all want me to stop breathing don't you? Well I haven't yet and I won't rest until I own my own Orangery damn you Marjory....
Hello...Hello...?"