"So I've been thinking," I started, regarding Fiona over a steaming mug of some dark, Ethiopian blend. What with me living in an enchanted forest and Fiona subject to the vagaries of UK government policy, we seldom had a chance to meet, and social distancing made even this café rendezvous an awkward rather than intimate moment.
Fiona blew an errant blonde lock away from her cool blue eyes, which narrowed suspiciously. "Again?" It was almost a sneer.
"I don't know what you mean," I said, adopting an air of innocence that would fool no one, and certainly not Fiona.
"Oh, please." She snorted in disgust. "I can see you counting the words. What is it now? Forty? Fifty?"
"One twenty," I conceded, with an exaggeratedly sulky expression.
She scowled at my theatrics for a minute, then relented. "Last year's was fun," she said. "We could do that again."
"No, thank you." Last year she took control of the narrative and I spent half the story tied to a trolley while some anonymous cock had its way with me - which I hadn't minded at the time, but it's difficult to satisfy myself (let alone you, dear reader) when restricted to seven hundred and fifty words.
"Why do you do that?" Fiona asked. "Why use three words instead of one number? Just write '750' and free up a couple of words. It's amazing what you can do with two words."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yes indeed."
"Like what?"
