As Hazel gazed deeply into the print of the forms, lying bedraggled on her kitchen table, she wondered where everything had gone wrong. Once she had loved the forms, her eyes had moistened at their every visit to her hand, her pen had been so pleased to see the snortlingly proud expenses forms, ready to be filled with lots of her ink. But now, no more.
Taking a bite out of a passing cooking onion, she began to write the fateful, the dreaded, the even slightly onion-smelling letter she had to write to her manager, Sir Horace Pendragon-LLeweyllyyn von Bloomburger.
Her heart heaved with such heaviness, how, how could the forms have betrayed her? Why, oh why, and such sadness crept across her brow, like a Speaker creeping out of a brothel in Glasgow.
But as she added more water to her bright red hair dye, a knock at her cottage door arrived. Going to the door, wiping her bleary eyelashes with her gold-dusted handkerchief, Hazel opened the door and saw a man in a top hat upon a horse.
'What is it, sire?', she asked, clutching her lace kerchief closely in her tiny hands, and the man, imperiously acting like an emperor on a horse, answered: 'Are you Hazel Bleats, the damsel whose heart hath been broken by thy expenses forms letting you down?'
'Aye.' 'Well, I'm from the Fraud Squad, you're under arrest', and Hazel was lead away to go and meet her fate, one of being beheaded at dawn for treason.
And as she rode off into the sunset on the knight's horse, with her faithful dog Milliband running after her, she quietly whispered to herself: 'Bloomin' eck, it's a reet bugger when tha's caught out by t'press. 'Appen my forms will 'ave to be torn up more smart, like', and the horse faithfully rode all the way to Newton, without even having a ridley, where Hazel's executioners were awaiting the poor girl's arrival.
And so the forms were all sadly torn, the expenses were like a rose that had been crushed by Ann Widdecombe's chest, and Hazel's Parliamentary career was executed and buried, and the taxpayers all laughed scornfully, for their hearts were blackened by their perfidy, their injustice, and their tragical, magical mystery tour round the garden, to find any more of Hazel's things to claim for, such was their blackheartedness.
And one taxpayer, who found a gold bar in Hazel's garden, engraved with the House of Commons logo, picked it up, and letting a tear run down her face whispered 'Such was her love, like a gold bar nestling 'neath the torn roses and splintered forms. Wonder if there's any more under the patio?'
[Application forms for byelection candidates in Salford are available at: Labour Sleaze, Fiddling the Expenses Forms, Tories Just As Bad, Westminster Fraud Squad (On Holiday), London.]