In which your author tries and fails to sponsor a roundabout

A phone call.

"Hello? Is that Sponsor-a-Roundabout-dot-com?"

"Why, yes. Yes it is. How can we help."

"It's about the roundabout next to the station near Fleet in Hampshire."

"Yes, that's one of ours. What about it."

"Well, I'd like to sponsor it please."

"Oh, that's very generous of you. We have a wide range of packages for every..."

"...so I'd like to know what it's going to do."

"I beg your pardon?"

"If it's going to do a sponsored silence, I'll give it a quid. But if it's going to run a marathon or jump out of a plane, I could go as high as twenty."

"But sir..."

"And it's got to be for the right charity. I won't give anything where the money goes to... you know... ugly people."

"But sir..."

"Call me a fascist if you like, but ugly people can do their own sponsored silences. Somewhere where we can't see them. Know what I mean? Eh? Know what I mean?"

The roundabout goes unsponsored.