Something fishy

I've had a very exciting offer arrive in my email.   It is from the "Saudi Embassy in Philippines", and it goes like this:

"Last Gift

I am Dr Michael Law, a diagnosed cancer woman on bed is willing to donate her funds to help you as her last gift from God.  reply to dr.michaellaw1@9.cn "

Before I compose my reply, let's examine this more closely.

From the Saudi Embassy...hints at there being some fabulously weathy Arab involved.  I like this already.  In the Philippines, though.  Hmm, possibly one of the less affluant Saudis, then.  Possibly disappointing.  Not to dismiss it too soon, though, let's read on. 

"Last Gift" is a nice title.  Almost like a short story, or possibly a daytime movie starring someone who used to be in Dynasty, or Little House on the Prairie.  Or Felicity Kendall.  It has promise.  Provokes a warm feeling in my heart. 

The sharp inquiring feeling between my ears remains, however.  Let us continue the analysis.

Dr Michael Law, a name to inspire confidence.  Trust.  It's reassuring.  And he's a doctor, even better.  Doesn't say what he is a doctor of, mind.  Medicine?  Political science?  Media studies?  Is it a made-up Internet doctorate that you can buy for £20 and a bit of form-filling?  Is he, in short, someone I would allow to perform any kind of medical procedure on me?

The seeds of doubt are growing.

Then it gets even stickier.  "A diagnosed cancer woman." 

Sooo...she has been diagnosed with cancer?  Or diagnosed as being a woman?  Or diagnosed as someone  who was born in late June/early July?  Or maybe she has crabs? 

Be more specific, Dr Law, my sympathy and interest are dwindling.

But wait..."on bed."  Ahahaha.  She is on bed.  That makes all the difference.  However, again we are left to wonder.  Is it a hospital bed?  A vegetable bed?  The sea bed?  Details, man, details.

Then comes the crux of the matter. 

This crab-infested woman lying out in the garden among the cabbages wants to "donate her funds" to me for no reason whatsoever.  How nice of her.  I assume that "donate her funds" isn't a euphamism. 

Well, Dr Law, here's what I suggest you do.  Get her to transfer all of "her funds" into a British bank account, and then email me with the details.  Have her sign over authority to access that bank account to me, notarised by a professionally qualified and legally certified lawyer with a current license to practice law in England, and I will pick up the funds when I have time.

Thanks.

Oh, and the email address - Chinese, I think?  Idiot.

Crab tragedy

Forgot to mention the crab. Mr WithaY went scuba diving on Sunday, and brought home a big crab.

To eat, I mean. Not as a pet.

He was very excited, called me when the boat docked to tell me to get a big pot of water on the boil so he could cook it as soon as he got home.

"But we're going out to dinner when you get home," I explained. "We can't bring a cooked crab with us. It would look odd."

He eventually agreed, and it was settled that the crab would form the basis for lunch on Monday. A Bank Holiday treat.

We had a splendid evening with our lovely mates in the village, where the general consensus seemed to be that nobody would have minded if we'd brough the crab, but that it wouldn't have gone very well with the fab food already on the menu. So, at least we know for next time.

Anyhoo, come the dawn, Mr WithaY and I engaged on the gardening marathon already mentioned, looking forward to our sustaining lunch of crab sandwiches. Maybe some carrot soup afterwards if we were still hungry.

Lunchtime approached. The crab (cooked by now) was retrieved from the fridge. Hammers, picks and other implements of destruction (heh, waited years to use that quote) were laid out neatly, and the de-shelling process began.

With something of a flourish, Mr WithaY broke into the shell. I watched keenly, trying to identify the more deadly toxic parts of the crab for future reference. There was a small, heartfelt noise of distress from Mr WithaY's end of the kitchen as he discovered that the crab shell was all but empty.

He examined it closely, poking about with skewers and forks, but apart from the actual mechanics of the crab (the engine, I guess) there was nothing but air in there.

A young, tiny weeny crab, wearing a huge, brand new shell his Mum told him he'd grow into, it seems.

Mr WithaY picked every last ounce of crab out of the legs, determined to get at least a snack out of it. It was like the aftermath of a battle sequence from one of the Alien films.

Still, the soup was good. Filling. Just as well, really.