[John Whitworth]

Three of our best won in this week's Parting Shot Competition, so congratulations to Bazza, Frank and Chris! And, I must say, to Gillian Ewing, for winning with only two words!

This week's is an oldie, though with different words, if you see what I mean. Do your best and prizes will be yours I am sure.

No. 2698: FIRST & LAST
You are invited to submit a short story that begins ‘Of course he knew — no man better — that he hadn’t a ghost of a chance, he hadn’t an earthly’ and ends ‘And Reginald came slowly across the lawn’ (150 words max). Please email entries, if possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 25 May.

[Roger Slater]

Well done, you three! I enjoyed your winning entries.

[basil ransome-davies]

First & last words from Katharine Mansfield's 'Mr & Mrs Dove'. Not that it matters.

[John Whitworth]

But it's nice to know, Bazza. Thank you.

[Orwn Acra]

Of course he knew — no man better — that he hadn’t a ghost of a chance, he hadn’t an earthly. He would never get into heaven now, not after having applesauced Lady Montblanc in last night's game of Key and Socket. It was an evening to be etched in one's memory: the Brigadier lunchboxed the Colonel; everyone poodled Madame Delancey's topiary garden; and Reginald lobster Newburged onto the chest of Dame Ida. Then a zenith to out-zenith all zeniths: Clara Fortescue, kneeling behind the vegetable garden, did a Waldorf salad with a stray German Shepherd and a boot jack. The Colonel climaxed. The Brigadier boomed. And Reginald came slowly across the lawn.

[John Whitworth]

I think that's too rude for the likes of Lucy, Orwn. I'm surprised at you. Tcha!

[FOsen]

Yes, but while I'd been expecting someone to go there, I still laughed.

[Orwn Acra]

All you have to do is take an item in your kitchen and figure out who is going to do it and to whom.

[Julie Steiner]

That explains the popularity of a certain board game.

I have a feeling there will be a lot of unprintable Honorable Mentions for this one.

Okay, to get everyone's mind out of the gutter--or the topiaries, as the case may be:

.....Of course he knew — no man better — that he hadn’t a ghost of a chance, he hadn’t an earthly. Even if he did find an undamaged bolt of nainsook somewhere in the ruined warehouse, he'd never find it in time to complete six shirts for Beau Brummell by Tuesday. His dream commission, the commission that would have made his career, had gone poof in the explosion of the treacle refinery next door.
.....And yet he couldn't give up. He'd now been shifting the rubble for hours. The ambitious young tailor blew at his forelock in frustration, then continued to pick through the sticky wreckage in hopes of uncovering something still clean and white. Something lightweight and sheer. Something crisper than voile, yet not so crisp as organdy. And Reginald came slowly across the lawn.

[FOsen]

Of course he knew — no man better — that he hadn’t a ghost of a chance, he hadn’t an earthly. Blasted mind useless as a broken sieve—straining but not straining, as it were. What was the name of that chap with the silver salver, near the pavilion, the one dressed like a penguin? Penguins put him in mind of the North Pole. Polish person? No, red, perhaps—not commie, but cardinal, not the bird. Catholic chap. Cardinal Pole, was it? Archbishop back in . . . somewhere. Anyway, Reginald Pole, that was it. “I say, Reggie,” he mumbled. Now, if he could only remember what it was that he wanted. Some other chap’s name . . . Eddie, no, more like a woman’s undergarment, one of those filmy, a . . . . teddie. No, sod it – no wait! Toddie! “Reginald,” he called, drawing himself up to full height in his chair and taking care to speak slowly and not slur his words. “’Nother toddie over here, old suitcase.” And Reginald came slowly across the lawn.