Junk

Caroline Jones is undertaking the Creative Writing MA.

Jack knows this can’t go on.

          He hadn’t taken much notice of the emails at first. He used to look at the subject matter, hit delete. But then Sarah cheated on him and left and they continued to appear, perhaps now with more frequency, although he can’t be sure. ‘Enlarge your manhood by three inches.’ Never boob jobs; is this targeted advertising, he ruminates. First, discount Virgin train tickets, then seductive William Hill betting odds; but he’d never even Googled ‘average size’, so how could it be? Each goading email prompts a question. At three in the morning, Jack wonders whether inches are the cup-size of the masculine world, or whether girth is the equivalent. He decides centimetres sound better than inches and envisages classified adverts at the back of GQ with ‘before’ and ‘after’ shots of a faceless man in snug white boxers, the tagline: ‘Adam went from a 7B to a 15D in just four weeks.’