The Ballad of the Flying Condom
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Dear Upstairs Neighbours,

Greetings from Flat 12-0102.

My wife and I are the custodians of a modest but much-loved terrace garden. Every leaf is nurtured, every pot tended, every sapling encouraged to achieve its botanical destiny.

This morning, however, we discovered that one of our flowerpots had apparently been selected as the final resting place of the item pictured below.

We are circulating this message to all flats above ours.

If you have absolutely no idea how this object arrived here, please disregard this note and continue being the upstanding citizen you undoubtedly are.

If, however, you possess even the faintest clue as to its origins, then the following message is intended for you.

First, congratulations.

Not merely on coming, but on coming with such confidence, enthusiasm, and apparent ballistic force. One does not accidentally clear several floors of vertical distance. There is athleticism involved. Commitment. Follow-through.

That said, as an older gentleman who has travelled many miles upon life’s highway, allow me to offer a small piece of wisdom.

Your noble seed is generally more productive when directed toward a willing womb than a potted croton.

While our plants appreciate organic matter, this is not quite the fertiliser they had in mind.

And if, as the presence of the prophylactic suggests, the intended recipient was not currently accepting applications, then may I respectfully recommend the nearest dustbin, rather than an aerial disposal programme from your balcony.

The incident has also had unfortunate domestic consequences.

My wife, upon seeing the article, became wistfully nostalgic.

“Remember those?” she sighed.

I have spent the remainder of the morning under a level of scrutiny and expectation that a man of my years neither needs nor deserves.

I therefore beseech you: enjoy yourselves by all means.

Love passionately.

Romance recklessly.

Copulate enthusiastically.

But kindly keep the archaeological evidence within your own premises.

May your aim improve, your passion endure, and your rubbish find the bin.

With admiration, envy, and a slightly strained lower back,

A Fellow Resident
Flat 12-0102

52 minutes ago, ravip said:

Look at the disappointment on their faces