In Competition No. 3321 you were invited to provide a love scene from a novel set in a location that might not be considered conducive to romance.

There was a distinctly scatological flavour to this week’s postbag. Rubbing shoulders with the abattoirs and morgues were sewage treatment plants and waste-contaminated waters. Adrian Fry’s description of romance blossoming in a post-thermonuclear apocalypse government bunker earns an honourable mention: ‘Their past as local authority officials retreated to irrelevance, their future as irradiated cannibals above ground proved literally unimaginable…’. As does Nick MacKinnon’s glue factory tryst: ‘Julianna had been warned about the men in Industrial Adhesives. “They’ll treat you like another Post-it Note on their bedroom mirror: easy-on, easy-off, no residue. Find a nice boy in Consumer Stickies.”’

The winners, printed below, are rewarded with £30 each.

– You’re quite a catch, he said.

It was the best he could do, and she loved him for it, although the pit of half-alive fish into which they’d slipped was causing them problems with balance and breathing. She tried to struggle towards him, shifting some of the smaller creatures from before her to behind her. It was slow going, and the sea-drool and scales were starting to soak her. If only she could reach him, she would kiss him so deeply, let her tongue lounge against his salty lips.

His head surfaced again, white and clammy, eyes agog with love and wonder, mouth gasping, opening and closing, trying to pronounce her name. Oh such feelings welling up within her! Fish nudged and nipped her as she made another attempt, her free arm grasping at the fetid air as if it might propel her forward. He sank again, lovely as ever.

Bill Greenwell

Duncan’s hands on the cleaver were strong, yet sensitive. Doris held tightly to her thick Cumberland sausages, longing for his touch on her chicken thighs. There was something so dashing in his chain-mesh glove, the precise way he sliced T-bones, the bold bloody stains of his apron. Marinating in emotions, she remembered his recent exploration of her body, savouring her like the finest tripe. No other butcher handled her rump so masterfully. Even the specials on display were like him; raw and wild, fresh, spicy and juicy. His tying up a roast with string and swift use of the bacon slicer reduced her to jellied brawn. The hanging carcasses reminded her of his beefy, yet tender arms. She loved his tongue, his kidneys, his liver, his lamb loins and his steak tartare. As their eyes met over the counter, the air crackled like perfectly roasted pork fat.

Janine Beacham

The air-conditioning in the editorial suite of the Methodist Recorder was efficient, yet Derek Williams was perspiring. The cause was the proximity of the woman beside him. They had been colleagues for a while, writing articles together on the revision of the Hymnal, and on new possibilities for circuit suppers. But last week, as they collaborated on a series on the proliferation of smut in modern life, he had become suddenly, wonderfully, completely aware of her. Her righteous anger at the discovery of a double entendre in an episode of Peppa Pig had jolted him into seeing her as a thinking passionate woman, one utterly adorable. He was barely in control of his voice as he asked her: ‘Miss Lamacraft, would you care for a fruit tea?’

Was it only illusion, or did her reply hint at a reciprocal yearning? ‘Thank you, Mr Williams. That would be very nice.’

George Simmers

‘Bring a mattress XXX’ The text she’d been waiting for, practising for. Manoeuvring a mattress, single-handed, isn’t easy, even in a Range Rover, but desire is inventive. Since their first encounter, when he’d watched her struggling with an overloaded sack of quince prunings, then heaved the bag into the skip himself, they’d coincided their mutual visits to the Waste Recycling Site. She daren’t ask how he’d found that secret corner behind the Paints and Chemicals (‘Permits only: contact Reception’), screened by a stack of pallets from beeping lorries swapping the laden skips, the constant stream of cars disgorging household excess, the gang of watchful enforcers. Just enough space to lay a mattress down…

She reached for perfume — Je Reviens, perhaps? — but no: not today. Their trysting place had an overpowering smell all its own, that heady scent of intimacy, a seductive edge of decay and decadence that defined their relationship.

D.A, Prince

‘Daniel darling, why choose the unfinished part of the HS2 for our tryst?’

‘Here’s why, Isabella my love. After all the compulsory purchases, this area’s completely uninhabited. We’re alone together at last!’

‘That’s fantastic. Am I late? Problems getting from Manchester. The first train was cancelled, the next broke down –’

‘Never mind, dearest, you’re here now… Oops!’

‘A pothole! Darling, are you alright? Let me help you up.’

‘I’m fine. And instead of HS2 they’re going to mend all our potholes. Isn’t that wonderful?

‘Marvellous.’

Daniel took her hand. ‘Let’s climb inside that disused JCB, it’ll be more cosy.’

He put his arm round her and drew her close. ‘Isabella, I love you, you must know that. And I think you love me. Will you marry me?’

‘Darling, yes. How soon? High-speed?’

‘Sadly we’ll have to wait for years. Maybe for ever.’

‘Oh no!’ she cried, sobbing inconsolably.

Sylvia Fairley

No. 3324: Added seasoning

You are invited to submit nonsense verse on an autumnal theme. Please email entries of up to 16 lines to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 1 November.