Getting my goat

A perplexing email has arrived from one John Roskam at the Institute of Public Affairs in Melbourne, Australia. In the subject field it says: ‘Hey! What did I miss? Xxx’.

I have racked my brains but am reasonably sure I have never met Mr Roskam. What’s more, I’m comfortably of the opinion that I have never solicited kisses from him. As I read on, he informs me that the Australian government has just passed a new law stipulating how much insecticide you’re allowed to have in goat fat. What I’m supposed to do about all this — the goat fat, the kisses, the things Mr Roskam might have been missing — is not made clear. But it is now weighing heavily on my mind. Perhaps Mr Roskam would like to get in touch again to let me know how I can help. Could he confirm whether he really does desire my amorous attention, or whether, as I suspect, his long-distance protestations of love are a cruel scam and he actually wants me to write an article about overbearing insecticide regulations.