The Clementine Complex

by Bob Mortimer

To describe me as anonymous would be unfair, but to notice me other than in passing would be a rarity.

He had a barreled chest and a beer belly suitable for sleeping four adult pigeons.

his bottom teeth were strewn around his gum, each and every one of them fighting for the attention of the curious onlooker.

On a hidden bit of architrave around its door I have written in tiny letters “large bananas.” I occasionally take a glance at it to cheer myself up.

“I don’t like the foil. Taking it off makes my fillings vacillate.”