Midass

Once I had a chicken and it laid a golden egg.
I cracked it open and poached it.
It tasted just like a normal egg.

But then everything went dark.

When I woke up, the floor was the first thing I saw. It was golden.
I sat up and rubbed my eyes. And suddenly my skin felt different.
And my skin had turned gold, too.
I touched my clothes and they went gold, I touched the sofa and it went gold, too.
I walked round the house touching things. Turns out mobile phones don't work if they're made of gold, and golden apples don't taste so good. And golden water doesn't run. I decided not to take a bath.

I waited around for my family to get home, because I didn't really know what to do. I would have called NHS direct but they wouldn't have believed me. Well, I tried anyway, but my laptop was made of gold so I couldn't look up the number and the phone was made of gold so I couldn't dial it.

I went out into the garden and turned some grass and flowers gold, and they looked beautiful, and I stroked the hen that had laid the egg and turned her feathers into delicate gold. She asked her why her egg had made me this way but she just clucked and crooned and scratched off through the flower beds, pecking for worms.

I lay back on the golden grass and wept golden tears of despair. What would I do? Live a golden life of lonely, hungry, exorbitant wealth? Be in a channel five documentary?

Then I went to the toilet and did a golden poo. I wondered if I could sell it on Ebay. Probably not because I can't use a computer.

I flushed.

And the flusher didn't turn gold. It stayed silver.
And then so did the tap. And the water.

I washed my hand and the gold flaked off and away, down the plughole. And I wept beautiful, transparent tears of relief.

King Midas should have just gone for a number two.