Bests & Worsts Reviews from Amazon

Gentlemen be warned. Herein lies a tale both strange and horrifying. I cannot explain these events, merely retell them. I was penning a review piece in my Moleskine journal on the life and works of Ernest Hemingway for the Times, and sadly, mid-sentence in fact, the trusty black BIC I have used for the best part of 7 months ran dry on me. Bereft, I cast my eyes hurriedly around my living room for an alternative. Nothing availed itself to me, until I spied a hint of pastel poking out from under a Cosmopolitan magazine I had not noticed before. Figuring it must have been my housekeeper's, I lifted it up (carefully) and revealed a pen. But not a type of pen I had ever encountered before. I was immediately wary, but gradually a sense of calm pervaded me as I regarded the gentle lines and soft hues of the mauve BIC Cristal For Her ballpoint pen in front of me. Lulled, I gathered it up into my rough hands, calloused from long years of honest toil, and cautiously prepared to resume writing. Initially, the discordant feminine tones of the mauve script, juxtaposed against the strong masculine duality of black ink on the crisp white pages, challenged the rhythm of my writing. But as the words began to first flow from me, and then stampede, onto the paper, I told Hemingway's tale. Long into the evening I wrote. As night closed in around me, and, weary, I laid down the pen, I knew as I reclined back in my chair and stretched my lean arms out that I was pleased. Like lofty Kilimanjaro soaring above the tawny plains of the Serengeti, this work would forever be the pinnacle of my oeuvre. Maybe it has been the mysterious, feminine, pen? I reflected on this in my armchair that night, resting in front of the wood fire with a Cohiba and a glass of Macallan. As the ashes burnt lower and lower, still my mind was on that pen. That mauve BIC Cristal. Looking to distract myself, I searched for the latest issue of GQ magazine that had arrived at my doorstep just the previous day. It had been on top of the heavy oak dining table, but other than the errant Cosmopolitan, there was nary a magazine to be found. Perplexed once more, I retired to bed, hoping for answers with the dawn. I awoke the next day, the nascent sun lancing through my windowshade to stir my eyes from sleep. Foggy with whisky and troubled dreams, I donned my robe and descended the stairs to the living room. As I prepared my morning single-origin coffee, I thought about my triumphant writing of the previous evening, and was eager to review the piece before deadline. Settling into the leather armchair, I opened my Moleskine and began to read. Almost immediately, my brow furrowed. This wasn't right! They weren't even my words. Hemingway has vanished from the pages, only to be replaced by...something, someone else. "Drivel" was the first thought that struck me as I read, my mind reeling from the shock. But who's drivel? "...I totally disagree. There is no sin in life worse than being boring-and nothing worse than letting people tell you what to do. I was one of the few heiress to walk the runway as a model. A lot of people thought that was shocking. Why did I do it? Was it a desperate cry for attention, like the papers said? Hardly. It's not like I need any more attention..." As I read, a slow, mad thought came to me. Somehow, my Hemingway had become Paris Hilton. These were her words, this was her story. 'Confessions of an Heiress', that was the title of her autobiography. But how it come to be written in my journal? The pen. That damn mauve, shapely, soft, feminine pen. I turned, and looked for it. It sat there, indolently in the morning sunlight, nestled against my iPod. Somehow, this pen of unknown providence, had subverted my masterwork on that most masculine of literary heroes, and made base metal from what had, all too briefly, been gold. It was the Original Sin played out again, Eve catalysing the debasement of proud Adam. As I watched the pen, marvelling at it's subtle malevolence, a chill descended over me. What else had it done? My eyes sought the magazine, and as I saw it I knew. My GQ had become Cosmo. Almost reluctantly, I reached my iPod, and switched it on. Gone. Everything has gone, Zeppelin, Cash, Beethoven, all of it was now...Taylor Swift. I lurched back in horror, and snatching up the cursed pen, threw it violently onto the last smouldering embers of last night's fire. As my coffee grew cold, I watched that mauve pen slowly melt away, and I wept. Postscript: This is the first thing I have written since, and it will be the last. Please gentlemen, spare yourselves my fate, and do not ever use one of these Cristal pens.