BY DOMINIC WIGHTMAN

Just before Christmas, while on holiday with my family, I received a text. A parcel had been delivered to my neighbour’s house. We live in the sticks. The parcel went to Martin’s farm. He is our nearest neighbour. A tall man with blue eyes and a quiet way. God-fearing. He has a penchant for scrumpy. 

I texted Martin.

A few hours later, he replied:

“Yes, massive box here for you, Dom. Heavy too. Your Great Aunt sent by post for Christmas?!”

I was intrigued. I hadn’t been expecting anything although the Deputy Editor, James Bembridge, had messaged me the night before with a peculiar message on WhatsApp:

“Have a good Christmas, Dom. You must be knackered.” 

I had assumed Bembridge was drunk somewhere in Soho, drowned in pink gin. I replied with a sole thumbs-up hoping not to be dragged into one of his drunken discussions that inevitably end in him cursing God for endowing him with the tallywhacker of a Mongolian Gerbil. 

After getting his reply, I called Martin.

“What’s in that box?” I asked.

“Damned if I know. Bloody heavy. I was at The Carpenters when it came. They dropped it in the rain. Jenny brought it under cover. It’s in the garage, mate.” 

“I don’t suppose you can open it?” I asked, curiosity taking hold. 

“Sure. Hold on. Let me grab my knife.” 

I heard Martin move around. Dogs scattered. He was panting as he carried the box inside. His wife Jenny was there too, directing from her chair by the fire. 

Then came the sound of Martin cutting through the tape. The cardboard opened slowly. I heard the scrape of polystyrene. Martin’s voice broke through the noise:

“Bloody hell. Ooh. Ooh my God. What the f**k is that? Dearie me.” 

“What is it, Martin?” I shouted. 

Then Jenny’s voice rose.

“Put that monstrosity back in the box, Martin! What if the grandchildren see it? What is Dom thinking?” 

Martin took the phone again.

“Dom, I think I better put this back in the garage. You can come collect it when you’re back home. I’ll send you a photo later. Happy Christmas to the family.” 

He hung up. I was shocked. What could be in that box? 

My phone pinged soon after. A photo had arrived.

Meet Vincent: the Lifesize, 167 cm realistic adult gay love doll.

Bembridge, you are a dead man walking.