He finally had 48. He had waited for seventeen weeks and finally his target was met. But before he could set in motion his plan, before he could call anyone, another one came in. Then another. It was like a small trickle of letters. Not emails. Not text messages. Letters. All with Dear Sir at the top. All written in precisely legal English and all written by people who knew they couldn't be sloppy with the terms they used.
He decided to have a drink in celebration at getting the 48. He drank until his speech was slurred. Slurred enough to phone the Prime Minister's Office. "Itsch me. I've got them." He put the phone down and fell to sleep.
The person at the other end knew who it was and what he meant. She decided to do nothing for the time being until it was confirmed on the telly.