She caught my eye one cold cold night in November.
I had won a competition, I was in London enjoying my prize. The challenge had been to design a new method for honey production. My revolutionary idea was, in the production process, to replace bees with ants, ants which had been genetically engineered to be the size of echidnas. We would replace their antennae with new, specially designed with bespoke DNA, honey producing glands which I had, after much careful thought and mastication, named 'jackbones'.

My concept had won favour with the judging panel, a panel composed of the finest minds in the field. DNA was being sequenced, farms were being designed and I was basking in a glow that only the truly gifted enjoy.

My prize was a tour of Broadcasting House- that great symbol of excellence in journalism, of independence of spirit and clarity of purpose. A prize picked to mirror the very talents that enabled me to dream of jackbones and will them into their own existence.

I was ushered in to a hushed studio- the cameras with their ever-seeing, unblinking eyes focussed on a single spot at the end of the vast room, a spot inhabited by a being so otherworldly that I could not look away for fear that my soul would seep out of my pupils and congeal around my sasquatch feet.

Our eyes met for a moment and I found myself staring into dark, dark eyes that reeked of the grave. The pitch depths of these orbs spoke to me of terrible things; such terrible things, hewn from black marble as if in perverse worship of the very Beast itself.

She fixed me with her gaze, and with a voice as rich as the blood of Seebohm Rowntree, she began to speak. Such words I heard that I felt my blood run cold as it near froze in my veins. Words I had heard in fevered nightmares from which I would wake weeping and shaking.

"Good evening, I'm Fiona Bruce and I'm sitting on the luckiest chair in Broadcasting House".
(dozers, do fuck off ur a nob m8, Tue 3 May 2011, 1:30, Reply)