As part of my customary morning procrastination, putting off doing any

useful work for as long as possible, I have been trying to devise the

ultimate spam e-mail. Something like David Frost’s ultimate London tabloid

headline (which, if memory serves, was: “SEX-CHANGE VICAR IN MERCY DASH TO

PALACE CORGIS”). It needs to involve (a) printer ink cartridges, (b)

enhancement of bust and/or important male body parts, (c) sensationally low

mortgage deals, and (d) a business proposal from the nephew of an African

statesman. It’s harder than it looks, though, and I hereby throw it open as

a competition to readers who are as averse as I am to working before lunch.

The winner will be posted in The Corner. (Though please say whether you

want your name shown or not. Some employers are so-o-o persnickety about

people doing this kind of thing in company time.)