Why don’t any of these flaming pens work!?

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Pens, eh? Flaming pens! You buy a pack of twenty, you think, “That’ll do us for the year.” Two days later, you’re rummaging through the drawer like a fox in a wheelie bin, pulling out pens that haven’t worked since Thatcher was in power.

You pick one up click click click nothing. You scribble on the corner of a takeaway menu like you’re trying to summon ancient spirits. You lick the nib, blow down it, shake it like it owes you money. Still nowt! You’re there, muttering, “Come on, you useless stick of betrayal!”

And who’s putting these dead pens back in the drawer? Who’s doing that? That’s serial killer behaviour, that. That’s how it starts. One minute it’s pens, next minute it’s bodies under the patio. You try one, doesn’t work. You put it back. Why? What are you hoping for? A pen resurrection? “Oh maybe it’ll work next Tuesday when Mercury’s in retrograde!"

You’ve got a drawer full of false hope. It’s like pen purgatory. You open it and it’s just Bic carcasses and broken dreams. And there’s always one pen that looks like it works. It’s got ink, it’s got swagger, it’s got that little rubber grip like it’s been to university. You think, “This is the one.” You go to write… and it’s dry as a cream cracker in a sauna!

And we’re always buying pens! You go to the shop for milk, come back with a multi-pack of pens and a sense of betrayal. You’ve got pens in every room. Pens in the car, pens in your coat pocket, pens in the fruit bowl. But when you need one really need on it’s like they’ve all gone on strike!

And don’t get me started on the ones with the cap missing. You find one, no cap. It’s leaked. It’s tattooed your drawer like it’s been to Magaluf. You’ve got blue ink on your fingers, your receipts, your cat. You’re walking round like you’ve just signed a treaty with the Smurfs!

Flaming pens. They’re like socks in the tumble dryer always disappearing, always disappointing, and somehow costing you a fortune.




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