Absolutely No Shades of "That Sort of Thing"

You have to hand it to B&Q.  If there was an award for the most creative leap onto the bandwagon of that film they surely win it for the 'leaked email' supposedly sent to staff advising them how to deal sensitively with customers asking for (ahem) supplies not required for conventional DIY.  Having grabbed headlines across the entire media spectrum, they've 'fessed up to it being a spoof.

Cynical, wicked - and sheer bloody marketing genius.

Arguably, I'm missing a trick here myself.  There are 'shady' jokes and references I could be using to push my own work, not least the old anti-austerity line about being the only novelist writing about being screwed by sadistic millionaires who can't make any money from it.  I considered a short story tie-in (tie-up?): a serious tale, perhaps with our Daphne the lone placard-wielding protestor at her local multiplex, watching a lass she knows to be a victim of serial domestic abuse going to see it with her latest unsuitable boyfriend: a funny one, inspired by the B&Q story, with Sally Archer trying to buy cable ties for her electrician and getting the nudge, nudge, wink, wink from the guy behind the counter: or a 'really rather saucy' one with Hilary perusing the wares in her local Ann Summers but concluding that nothing on offer improved on nature - at least as far as her man was concerned!

In the event, one of my colleagues (you know who you are, SJ!) got there first with a splendid little snippet of Grand Union 'fan fiction'

Daphne exclaimed “at last an internet connection.”  She hastily searched for the nearest B & Q; to her delight there was one a short walk away, 
She called out to Harry.  “Just nipping out to pick up some supplies pet”
“Do you need some company duck?”
“No, you carrying on thinking, I will be back in about 20 minutes”
Daphne walked along the clarty tow path and then cut through the factories to B & Q
“Can I help you madam?” asked the sales assistant.
“Yes please, I need some cable ties and gaffa tape”…

Mercifully, she left it with the reader wondering how this little escapade would end - perhaps arguing the merits of a running bowline over a clove hitch while six pints west of sober, waking up the next morning both tied up in positively Gordian knots, neither able to reach the scissors to set them free and one of the villains on the prowl close by?  (Damnation!  Wish I'd thought of that sooner.  Note to self - remember for next Daphne Randall adventure!)  

But no.  For all the joking about, a big part of me stands beside Daphne with her placard, deeply concerned about this romanticising of a creepily unequal and unhealthy relationship, and yet another 'flawed hero' who we're supposed to drool over for being insanely rich and powerful.  Like their author, 'my girls' don't go for Mr Grey.  Daphne would gladly hand him down a lecture on respect, Hilary would have a few very sharp words on consent and as for Sally, she'd be investigating just how kinky his company's accounts were, especially that deal with HSBC... 

And she'd tell him that his skyscraper was 'crap' too.