We arranged the artichokes in the ancient mystical design. We chanted and made our devotions to the spirit world, calling on the Mystical Double-Glazing Salesmen of the Midnight Hour to intercede on our behalf, in order to cause undue complexities into the commuter train schedules of our most loathed and feared enemies.
We were strongly tempted to call down plagues of Social Workers, Design Consultants, Sunday Supplements, tacky television advertisements for over-priced cosmetic products of dubious worth and merit, and many, many, other forms of dire and deadly plague. However, we were thwarted in our designs by our inability to locate the necessary sacrificial virgin in time.
When we, eventually, did locate one, she expressed strong doubts and reservations about the long-term career prospects inherent in our proposal. So she promptly made herself invalid for our further consideration through a rather brief, and seemingly unsatisfactory for her, dalliance with a rather slow-witted trainee gas-fitter called Wayne she met 27 vodka shots into a routine quiet evening at her local shag-palace.
So, before the planets slipped out of their alignment with our local branch of Marks and Spencer, we were forced to sacrifice a spare coffee table leg.
We wait for satisfactory results of our endeavours with slow ever-diminishing hope.
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