Bad News

"I'm afraid it's cancer Mr Rectangle," the doctor said.

I didn't know what to say, well what do you say?

He continued, as if he'd expected my silence. "It's not a fatal form of cancer, but it is serious. I'm afraid you have culture cancer, it will slowly eradicate your ability to tell good from bad. You will develop severe judgmental impairment."

This was worse than I could ever have expected. I'd assumed I'd be facing death, but taste cancer meant the gradual erosion of all cultural discernment, of all sensibility. Within two years I'd be watching X Factor, listening to Coldplay and reading third rate horror and sci fi.

"Is it treatable?" I asked."

"If caught early, yes, but I'm afraid in your case it has already started to take hold, so it's too late to operate."

I remembered the Take That CD I'd bought the other week and on Sunday I'd watched Ready, Steady Cook without even reaching for the Radio Times to check there was nothing better on the Paint Drying channel.

"Is there anything I can do, to slow down the process?"

The doctor removed his glasses, looked up from his notes and gave me a hard, frank stare.

"They do say that writing short stories is a good way to delay the inevitable," he paused to sigh heavily before continuing. "But I should warn you, they won't be very good."