I've had two now.
Two text messages on my phone advising me that I am entitled to a huge wodge of cash for the accident that I just had.
The first time I was at work and wondered if it just was a veiled threat from a work colleague. Yeah, that's right Blakey, you're gonna have an accident real soon, something nasty and anally invasive with a museum artefact - probably that South Sea Island carved spear you admire so much or the narwhal tusk. You're gonna get it. Right up to the hilt. And then - ultimate insult - we're gonna offer you a measly £325 in compensation.
Because that's all the first text offered me.
Honestly. It's not worth getting an in-growing toenail for £325.
So I deleted the text. I binned it. I ignored it.
But a second one came today whilst in the car, driving back home from town. £3250 this time.
They've added a nought.
The threat has plainly increased exponentially. We're not talking about mere impalement now. We're possibly talking the loss of a limb. Maybe two. They may even throw in the loss of a testicle just to drive their point home.
They're out to get me and I don't know who it is.
I've a list of suspects as long as the staff list at work (funny that).
I'm unsure of how to play it. I mean, do I hold out for 6 figures but accept that this may mean lifelong dialysis and a Stephen Hawking voice box? Wheelchair access in the cinema?
They may even blind me, for God's sake. The Archers. Radio 4. The shipping forecast. Shit. What do I do?
I shouldn't have deleted that first text.
Maybe I could strike a deal? Accept their first offer. I mean, £325 ain't bad, is it? It's a caravan holiday in Cleethorpes. The weather might be nice that week. The kids love ice cream by the seaside. And I could get used to never sitting down again. There'd be an iPhone app for that surely?
Oh God! What do I do?
Shit. My phone is beeping again. It's another text...!