Negotiations

My fingers rattle a rhythm on the desk. They are talking to me, requesting my attention, looking for something to do. Always keen to keep them sweet, I ship my digits across to the keyboard so they can tap out a more specific message.

"Hello, Fred."

"Hello, fingers," I say back.

"Sorry to bother you."

"That's ok."

"We're a little bord."

"Spelling..."

"Sorry - bored. :)"

"What do you want to do then? Some drawing?"

"No, thank you." My right-hand fingers stop typing. "It's a bit shit for us."

"What about a little pottery?"

"NO NO NO. TOO DIRTY. THE CLAY DRIES UNDER OUR NAILS."

"Alright. You can turn caps lock off. I get the point. Do you have any ideas?"

"We want to play the piano."

"But you've played the piano six times already today," I groan.

"Just once more. We'll put your earplugs in for you."

"What's in it for me?"

"You can use us to pick your nose as much as you like." This is the clincher.

And so, five minutes later, the eleven of us are all over by the piano, fingers bashing out a Mozart sonata whilst I try to do the Times crossword in my head.